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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


r\ 


LAWRENCEVILLE  VERSE 


A  Collection  of  Verse  by  Boys  of  the 
Lawrenceville  School 


Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
John  C.  Cooper,  Jr.,  L.  1905 


LAWRENCEVILLE,  NEW  JERSEY 
1910 


Printed  at 

Princeton  University  Press 
Princeton,  N.  J. 


This  Collection  is  Most  Respectfully  Dedicated 

to 

DR.  SIMON  J.  MCPHERSON, 
Head  Master  of  the  Lawrenceville  School. 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 

Poetry  is  one  of  the  casual  arts.  It  flourishes 
where  least  expected;  it  is  a  continual  source  of 
surprise  to  the  logician  who  would  regulate  the 
universe  by  fixed  rules.  Akin  to  Poetry  is  what 
we  are  pleased  to  call  Verse.  On  the  printed 
page  Poetry  and  Verse  appear  in  the  same  form. 
We  recognize  almost  intuitively,  however,  the 
fact  that  they  are  not  one  and  the  same,  that  they 
differ  in  tone,  in  inspiration,  in  method  of 
thought.  Verse  is  always  the  less  pretentious 
of  the  two.  It  does  not  aspire  toward  the  heights 
that  Poetry  must  reach  to  be  really  good. 

Though  Verse  differs  in  this  respect  from 
Poetry,  it  shares  with  it  the  characteristic  first 
mentioned  above,  unexpectedness.  It  is  this 
characteristic  which  we  hope  will  be  found  the 
chief  merit  of  this  collection  of  Lawrenceville 
Verse,  especially  in  the  minds  of  those  personally 
unacquainted  with  any  of  the  great  American 
preparatory  schools.  To  the  average  person  the 
American  school-boy  is  an  irresponsible  animal, 
capable  of  no  very  serious  endeavor  beyond  the 
athletic  field,  and  especially  unlikely  to  suffer 
from  so  serious  an  attack  of  authorship  as  to 
aspire  to  Verse.  We  hope  that  as  far  as 


Lawrenceville  at  least  is  concerned,   this  book 
may  to  some  extent  dispel  the  illusion. 

The  Verse  included  in  this  collection  is  all  the 
product  of  Lawrenceville  boys  of  the  last  fifteen 
years.  In  the  fall  of  1895  Mr.  Owen  Johnson  of 
the  class  of  1895,  who  was  spending  a  year  in 
graduate  study,  founded  the  '  'Lawrenceville 
Literary  Magazine" ;  and  it  is  from  the  numbers 
of  this  publication  that  the  Verse  in  this  book 
has  been  selected.  The  date  that  accompanies 
each  piece  indicates  the  time  of  its  original  pub 
lication  in  the  "Lit".  No  attempt  has  been  made 
to  classify  the  pieces  by  subject  matter  or  other 
wise;  chronological  arrangement  seemed  prefer 
able.  It  has  been  the  endeavor  of  the  editor  to 
publish  not  only  the  best  of  the  Verse,  but  also 
the  most  representative.  For  this  reason  all  of 
the  Class  Odes  are  included  in  the  volume. 
Some  pieces  have  been  retained  purely  for  their 
subject  matter,  some  for  their  technical  clever 
ness,  some  for  a  chance  expression  more  than 
usually  pleasing,  but  the  majority  for  the  very 
simple  reason  that  they  are  good  Verse.  The 
appreciative  notice  of  the  reader  is  called  to  the 
remarkable  variety  in  themes  as  well  as  forms 
of  treatment,  and  to  the  degree  to  which  current 
events  in  the  larger  world  have  been  reflected  in 
the  interest  of  the  boy-poets  represented  here. 
The  result  we  feel  is  entirely  worth  while. 


This  is  the  year  of  our  Centennial  at  Lawrence- 
ville,  a  time  when  every  alumnus  should  feel 
proud  of  his  School.  We  trust  that  in  this  little 
book  may  be  found  not  only  a  worthy  souvenir 
of  the  Centennial,  but  also  evidence  of  the  posi 
tion  that  Lawrenceville  has  taken  and  will  take 
in  the  intellectual  life  of  our  country. 

We  wish  to  take  this  opportunity  to  thank  Mr. 
T.  D.  Swift  for  the  use  of  his  files  of  the  "Lit", 
and  Mr.  D.  V.  Thompson  and  Mr.  C.  B.  Newton 
for  their  very  kind  advice  in  the  preparation  of 
this  collection. 
June,  1910.  THE  EDITOR. 


SUGGESTIONS  FROM  OVID. 

Ere  the  years  like  flowing  water 

Pass  and  glide  away, 
Ere  the  freshness  of  life's  morning 

Showeth  youth's  decay, 
While  the  years  are  young  around  thee, 

Then  thou  mayest  play. 

For  thou  never  canst  recall  what  has  passed 

And  a  die  badly  thrown 

Is  a  chance  ever  gone, 
For  thine  own  is  alone  what  thou  hast. 

The  opportunities  of  life  swept  by, 

Indifferent  there  thou  liest  like  a  laggard  still. 
Thou  wert  content  to  view  the  realms  on  high, 

And  stand  forever  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill. 

But  when  some  kindly  guide 

Advised  thee  of  the  way, 
Thou  turnedst  soon  aside 

By  worldly  joys  belied, 
And  peevishly  replied, 

"At  some  still  later  day." 

In  sloth  fulness,  in  luxury,  in  ease, 

In  folly  passedst  thou  the  seasons  of  thy  youth ; 
Thine  only  object  was  thyself  to  please — 

The  lowest  aim  and  motive  of  man's  life,  in 
truth. 


By  various  paths  thou  mightst  have  scaled  the 

height, 

And  rested  now  at  ease  in  all  prosperity. 
Then  thy  fair  name  encircled  by  pure  light 
Would  have  shown  brightly  down  through  all 
posterity. 

And  when  some  aged  year 

Shall  count  thee  with  her  dead, 
And  life's  sad  end  draw  near, 
Review  with  bitter  tear, 
Look  back  'mid  doubt  and  fear, 
Thou'lt  dare  not  look  ahead. 

RICHARD  ASHLEY  RICE,  1896. 
November,  1895. 


THE  OLD  YEAR. 

A  year  of  time !    What  a  reflectf ul  phrase 

To  us,  reminded  of  our  numbered  years ! 

Does  it  recall  another  gone  amiss  ? 

A  fruitless  fight?    Our  courage  swept  in  tears? 

Or,  are  we  glad  to  look  behind  and  see 

The  rugged  path  of  duty  nobly  trod  ? 

The  way  oft  marred  with  single  combat  scars, 

But  each  one  further  onward — nearer  God! 

EDWARD  CHASE  DOUGLAS,  1896. 
January,  1896. 

10 


AN  EPILOGUE  FROM  HORACE. 
A  grand  memorial  I've  proudly  raised, 
And  for  myself  a  monument  I've  built, 
More  durable  than  bronze,  and  higher  far 
Than  the  vast  masses  of  the  pyramids ; 
A  fame  that  sinks  not  in  the  surging  sea 
But  stands  serenely  'mid  the  raging  storm ; 
A  name  untarnished  in  the  span  of  years 
And  unaffected  by  the  flight  of  time. 
'Tis  not  my  destiny  unknown  to  die, 
Nor  from  men's  minds  entirely  pass  away ; 
The  greater  part  of  me  shall  ever  live, 
And  bear  me  record  through  all  History. 
With  every  year  in  which  the  great  high  priest, 
Attended  by  a  vestal  virgin  pure, 
Ascends  the  temple  steps  to  sacrifice, 
And  calls  on  Jove  to  bless  the  Roman  realm, 
My  glory  will  continue  to  increase. 
Where'er  a  rolling  river  runs  to  sea 
Or  Daunus,  scant  of  water,  rules  his  land, 
There  long  shall  I  remembered  be,  as  one, 
Who  from  a  humble  birthright  rose  to  claim 
The  world's  attention  as  the  first  who  tuned 
Italia's  fabled  lyre  to  Grecian  strain. 
Put  on  thy  well-earned  laurels  now,  my  Muse, 
And  gracious  crown  me  with  the  Delphic  wreath, 
Apollo's  tribute  to  his  worthy  bard. 

RICHARD  ASHLEY  RICE,  1896. 
February,  1896. 

ii 


ON  A  GRAY  DAY. 

How  now  doth  Melancholy  haunt  the  land, 
And  hide  behind  her  weeping  shroud  the  sight 
Of  dying  day !    Behold  her  gloomy  hand 
Hath  cast  abroad  the  veil  of  coming  night. 
How  stern  the  clouds  o'erhang  the  restless  mam, 
As  oft  Remorse  o'er  conscience-troubled  sleep. 
How  silent  lies  the  mead  through  veering  rain! 
All   earth   doth   mourn  that   Heaven   should   so 
weep. 

OWEN  JOHNSON,  1895. 
April,  1896. 


THE  DAY. 

Now  comes  the  day,  with  maiden  blushes  coy, 
And  dimpled  lips,  to  break  the  charmed  sleep 
Of  Nature's  dreaming.    From  his  waking  joy 
In  fickle  mood  she  flies  to  azure  deep, 
And  chides  his  love  with  haughty  state  on  high. 
Or  else,  from  fleecy  veil  she  peeps  askance 
At  him.    At  eve,  relenting  with  a  sigh, 
She  turns  and  answers  him  in  one  fond  glance. 

OWEN  JOHNSON,  1895. 
April,  1896. 

12 


THE  LAND  OF  SLEEP. 
(Ovid) 

Near  the  Cimmerian  land  is  found 

Within  a  mountain  deep, 
A  hidden  cave,  the  house  and  home 

Of  sloth-producing  sleep. 
/ 

No  crested  cock  there  greets  the  dawn, 

Nor  with  unwelcome  noise 
Do  watchful  dogs  and  wary  geese 

Disturb  one's  dreamy  joys. 

No  beast,  no  flock,  no  wind-tossed  tree, 

Nor  human  voice  is  there, 
To  murmur  harshly  through  the  haze 

That  fills  the  drowsy  air. 

Dumb  stillness  occupies  the  place, 

And  far  from  ray  of  sun, 
The  river  Lethe,  'neath  a  rock 

Has  here  its  course  begun. 

It  ripples  softly  o'er  smooth  stones, 

And  ere  it  onward  creep, 
It  whispers  low  a  welcoming 

To  the  dull  god  of  sleep. 

Of  poppies  and  all  other  herbs 
Near  by,  there  is  no  dearth; 

From  their  rich  juice  Nox  gathers  sleep 
And  thus  bedews  the  earth. 


No  clumsy  portal  there  to  creak, 

No  heavy  hinge  to  grate, 
No  door  is  there  in  all  the  place, 

Nor  guardsman  at  the  gate. 

Full  in  the  midst  of  the  dim  cave 

An  ebon  couch  is  placed, 
All  downy,  dark,  and  raised  on  high, 

And  with  a  rich  robe  graced. 

There  lies  the  lazy  god  himself, 

His  languid  limbs  relaxed, 
With  empty  dreams  and  seeming  shapes 

His  mind  but  lightly  taxed. 

These  round  him  stand,  a  spectre  horde, 

Unnumbered  as  the  grain 
In  harvest  field,  or  leaves  in  wood, 
Or  sand  beside  the  main. 

EDWARD  CHASE  DOUGLAS,  1896. 
May,  1896. 


'96  CLASS  ODE. 
Thou  God  of  might  and  mercy, 

Whose  truth  shall  ever  stand, 
The  blessings  of  Whose  bounty 

Are  seen  on  every  hand, 
To  Thee  we  here  assembled 

Present  our  parting  praise 
For  all  the  friends  and  friendships 

That  crown  these  happy  days. 


And  we  now  fain  would  render 

Our  thanks  for  lessons  gained, 
For  unforeseen  awakenings 

And  heights  through  work  attained 
For  scenes  that  memory  brighten, 

For  battles  fought  within — 
These  now  are  past;  before  us 

Are  others  to  begin. 


Each  heart  that  has  endeavoured 

Thy  holy  will  to  please, 
Would  humbly  lay  before  Thee 

Its  youthful  victories, 
And  we  would  boldly  venture 

A  blessed  boon  to  claim, — 
That  for  Thy  glory  ever 

May  '96  win  fame. 


When  these  dear  ties  are  sundered, 

O  may  our  record  still 
Throughout  our  grand  hereafter 

Ennoble  Lawrenceville ! 
And  though  wide-scattered  fortunes 

Be  ours  by  destiny, 
In  love  for  Alma  Mater, 
May  we  united  be ! 

WORDS  AND  MUSIC  BY 
EDWARD  CHASE  DOUGLAS,  1896. 
July,  1896. 


OCTOBER 

The  waves  broke  cold  on  the  silent  beach, 
White  sands  stretched  far  in  endless  reach. 
Then  from  the  long  green  swells  there  rose 
A  dripping  sunlit  head. 
And  others  quickly  came  beside. 
"Now  safely  here  we  may  abide, 
The  summer  queens  are  gone  away, 
We're  sovereigns  in  our  realm  to-day, 
O  Joy !"  the  mermaid  said. 

NORMAN  EDWARD  NELSON,  1898. 
October,  1896. 

16 


EGYPTIAN  WAR  SONG. 
Sebek  Hetep  rides  in  his  brazen  car, 

With  foot  behind,  and  horse  before ; 
And  the  trumpet  peals,  and  the  chariot  wheels 

Thunder  the  joyous  music  of  war. 
And  in  his  wake  are  stretched  grim  and  cold 
The  dead  whom  the  under-world  doth  hold. 

Sebek  Hetep  rides  in  his  brazen  car, 

With  his  host  behind,  and  the  foe  before; 

And  with  marshal  tread  and  with  standards 

spread, 
His  army  sweeps  on  as  in  days  of  yore. 

And  in  his  wake  are  stretched  grim  and  cold 

The  dead  whom  the  under-world  doth  hold. 

Sebek  Hetep  rides  in  his  brazen  car, 

With  his  foes  behind  and  confusion  before; 

And  the  terrified  shout  of  panic  and  rout 
Is  borne  to  his  ears  in  a  muffled  roar. 

And  in  his  wake  are  stretched  grim  and  cold 

The  dead  whom  the  under-world  doth  hold. 

Sebek  Hetep  rides  in  his  brazen  car, 

To  the  Palace  of  Death  on  the  farther  shore; 
And  from  out  of  the  gloom  reach  fingers  of 

doom, 

Of  them  who  carried  his  arms  of  yore. 
And  in  his  wake  are  stretched  grim  and  cold 
The  dead  whom  the  under- world  doth  hold. 

STEPHEN  FRENCH  WHITMAN,  1897. 
November,  1896. 


NOVEMBER. 

Bound  with  a  crown  of  amber  haze, 
With  autumn  leaves  in  giddy  maze, 
November  comes  on  whirring  wing, 
With  frosts  that  blast,  and  winds  that  sting 
But,  ah !    Soon  will  the  spring  be  here 
With  choiring  birds,  and  budding  cheer. 
Let's  not,  then,  weep  o'er  fallen  leaves, 
But  think  of  all  the  bursting  sheaves 
Of  happiness,  and  sunny  skies, 
With  which  bright  June  delights  our  eyes. 

DONALD  DEWITT,  i 
November,  1896. 


18 


A  MISSHOT. 

Twas  late  upon  a  summer's  night, 
That  sleepy  Cupid  winged  his  flight, 
Two  arrows  in  his  quiver  left, 
Two  hearts  remained  that  day  uncleft. 

A  maid  and  I  sat  very  near, 
He  viewed  us  with  a  drowsy  leer ; 
Then  forth  he  drew  his  trusty  bow 
And  aimed  his  shaft  full  sure  and  slow. 

I  felt  it  pierce  my  trembling  heart, 
And  then  he  drew  the  other  dart. 
This  time  his  glance  was  not  so  true; 
Alas !  the  second  struck  me  too. 

NORMAN  EDWARD  NELSON,  1898. 
November,  1896. 


AGE. 
A  curse  to  age,  that  final  page 

Of  weary  life, 
The  silent  gloom  of  nearing  doom, 

With  shadows  rife. 
The  mortal  wreck,  scarce  held  in  check 

From  Death's  grim  strand; 
Each  passing  wave  moans  of  the  grave, 

On  yonder  sand. 

When  friend  and  kin,  long  since  have  been 

But  smouldering  dust; 
We  only  stay  out  life's  dull  play, 

Because  we  must. 
Eternal  night  with  whose  dark  might, 

We  may  not  cope: 
Only  afar  beams  bright  the  star 

Of  Christian  hope. 

NORMAN  EDWARD  NELSON,  1898. 
February,  1897. 


20 


THE  MONK. 

The  solemn  tribute  of  monastic  chimes 
Proclaims  the  Sovereignty  of  night; 
The  shadows  deepen  round  the  site 
Where  cloisters  stood  in  ancient  times 
And  issued  forth  the  dreaded  blight 
That  reached  to  earth's  remotest  climes. 

A  monk,  whose  wasted  form  and  pallid  face 
Conceal  the  youth  his  years  imply, 
Regards  the  grandeur  of  the  sky 
And  beauty  of  a  world  too  base 
For  saints  in  it  to  live  and  die 
And  mingle  with  its  sordid  race. 

His  heart  was  burdened  with  a  vague  regret, 

A  longing  deep  but  not  defined 

Of  things  renounced  in  happier  mind 

And  deeds  wrought  out  beyond  the  let 

Of  Papist  oaths  and  vows  that  bind 

A  man  to  place  his  soul  in  debt. 

Now  darkness  reigns  o'er  all  the  country  side, 
The  stars  have  marshalled  their  array, 
And  brooding  silence  seems  to  chide 
The  thoughtless  tumult  of  the  day. 
'Tis  evening,  whence  no  morn  shall  rise 
To  light  a  hope  in  hermit's  eyes. 

NORMAN  EDWARD  NELSON,  1898. 
March,  1897. 

21 


A  PARABLE. 

One  day  a  juggler  of  the  Orient, 
With  practiced  eye  and  skilled,  unerring  hand, 
Girt  by  a  crowd  of  idle  passers  by, 
Displayed  his  craft  upon  the  burning  sand. 

A  flashing  blade  above  his  forehead  tossed, 
Upheld  with  gleaming  point  a  spinning  plate, 
Whose  dizzy  wheels,  broken  by  frequent  dips, 
Foretold  catastrophe,  if  checked  too  late. 

But  even  as  it  tottered  at  its  worst, 
Threat'ning  an  early  and  inglorious  fall, 
Some  kindly  fortune  seemed  to  enter  in 
And  save  it,  to  the  wonderment  of  all. 

Not  once,  nor  twice,  nor  thrice,  but  many  times 
Did  friendly  fate  seem  thus  to  interpose, 
Until  their  wonder  yielded  place  to  thought, 
And  in  their  minds  the  dawning  truth  arose. 

The  seeming  slips  and  errors  were  but  feigned, 
Each  one  subservient  to  the  juggler's  will; 
And  each  quick  rescue  from  destruction,  was 
But  added  proof  of  his  consummate  skill. 

The  crowd  applauded,  and  an  aged  man, 
With  flowing  beard,  and  high,  majestic  mien, 
Spoke  to  his  little  son,  who,  by  his  side, 
Wide-eyed  with  wonder  gazed  upon  the  scene. 

22 


"Attend,  my  son,  unto  thy  father's  words. 
To  him  whose  eye  Wisdom  permits  to  thread 
The  endless  maze  of  all-pervading  Truth, 
A  mighty  lesson  here  lies  open  spread. 

"The  juggler  is  but  Allah,  and  the  plate 
The  lives  and  destinies  of  men  below, 
Coursing  through  time  for  evil  or  for  good, 
For  glory  or  disgrace,  for  weal  or  woe. 

And  like  yon  disc,  that  spinneth  now  so  true, 
So  may  our  lives,  guided  by  Allah's  hand, 
Soar  to  ambition's  highest  pinnacle, 
Or,  tott'ring,  crash  in  ruin  to  the  sand. 

"Let  this,  then,  be  our  motto.    If  in  life 
Falling,    His   power   can   save    us    from   things 

worse, 

Rising,  His  hand  can  lift  us  higher  yet, 
The  Wonder-worker  of  the  Universe!" 

LYTTLETON  Fox, 
April,  1897. 


'97  ODE. 
Time's  shadows  move  along  the  sand, 

Life's  tide  rolls  out  to  sea, 
And  as  we  gather  on  the  strand, 

We  raise  our  hymn  to  Thee, 
To  Thee,  our  God  and  Counsellor, 
Who,  ever  at  our  side, 
Past  many  a  threatening  breaker's  roar 

Hast  been  our  patient  guide. 

The  ships  are  drawn  along  the  shore, 
With  wide-spread,  swelling  sails, 

To  take  their  outward  way  once  more 
Into  life's  stormy  gales. 

The  little  band  that  has  so  long 
Been  one  in  brotherhood, 

Breaks  up  to  join  the  countless  throng 

That  sail  the  boundless  flood. 

Full  many  a  sunny  day  has  flown 

Beneath  this  pleasant  sky, 
The  happy  hours  that  we  have  known 

Have  passed  too  swiftly  by. 
But  when  the  storm  clouds  hide  the  heaven 

Though  land  be  lost  to  view, 
Let  every  son  of  Ninety-Seven 

To  her  fair  name  be  true. 


24 


And  as  our  parting  hymn  we  raise 

Whilst  we  are  still  a  class, 
And  give  to  God  our  humble  praise 

For  bounties  in  the  past. 
We  breath  a  fervent  prayer  that  He 

May  guide  us  in  our  quest, 
And  bear  us  safe  o'er  stormy  sea, 

Into  the  golden  West. 

STEPHEN  FRENCH  WTHITMAN,  1897. 
June,  1897. 


MY  SHIP. 

I  stood  on  the  shore  of  the  great,  deep  sea, 
And  its  waters  were  rolling  and  singing  to  me 
A  tale  of  a  vessel,  far  out  toward  the  West, 
Where  the  foam  was  tossing  in  wild  unrest. 

A  vessel  weighed  down  with  treasure  and  gold, 

A  vessel  freighted  with  wealth  untold, 

A  vessel  of  love,  of  gladness,  of  mirth, 

A  barque  bearing  all  the  rich  blessings  of  earth. 

The  voice  of  the  mighty  sea  died  away, 
And  I,  with  trembling,  cried  out:  "Pray, 
Is  this  great  ship  that  sails  the  sea, 
Is  this  fair  merchantman  bound  for  me?" 

And  straightway,  the  answer  soft  and  sweet, 
With  the  wash  of  the  waves,  from  out  the  deep, 
Was  borne  to  my  ears  in  a  murmur :  "Yea, 
This  ship  of  thine  will  come  in  some  day." 

Blow  freshly,  blow  strongly,  ye  west  winds ;  waft 

Quickly  to  me  my  fairy  craft. 

Bring  it  in  safety  and  beauty  to  me — 

My  phantom  ship  from  over  the  sea ! 

DONALD  DEWITT,   1899. 
October,  1897. 


26 


CONSTANCY. 

There's  a  small  wee  town  on  the  English  coast, 

But  it's  all  the  world  to  me, 
For  there  on  the  sands  at  the  turn  of  the  tide 
A  lass  looks  out  to  sea. 

The  mermaids  laugh  on  the  snowy  crests, 

And  wave  me  toward  the  shore ; 
I  hear  the  sound  of  a  silver  voice 

That  other  men  would  draw. 

But  a  face  returns  that  scans  the  main, 

The  fairest  that  man  can  know ; 
In  mind  I  list  to  a  sweeter  tone 

Than  from  siren  lips  may  flow. 

In  wrathful  amaze  that  I  steer  away, 

They  call  from  the  perilous  lee, 
And  call  yet  again,  for  they  never  have  heard 
Of  the  lass  that  stands  by  the  sea. 

NORMAN   EDWARD   NELSON,    1898. 
October,  1897. 


27 


LOST:  A  FRIEND. 
I  met  a  girl — oh !  long  ago — 

And  ere  I'd  known  her  many  days 
I  dreamed,  and  now  I  know  'twas  so, 

That  veiled  betwen  her  words  and  smiles 
There  shone  a  warmer  nature's  glow. 

I  found  a  friend — not  tried  and  true — 
But  fluttering  just  within  my  grasp. 

I  strove  by  every  art  I  knew 

To  weld  that  friendship  firm  and  fast, 

That  I  might  claim  it  as  my  due. 


I  lost  a  friend.     Not  hers  the  blame; 
To  me  a  helping  hand  she'd  given, 
When  for  the  other  I  made  claim 

And  lost  the  first.     For,  as  she  said, 
She  sought  a  friend  and  not  a  flame. 

GEORGE   AGNEW   CHAMBERLAIN,    i 
November,  1897. 


THE  DEEPER  NIGHT. 

'     ;        !;i  I         ' ,    'I        I         •-"    \    '    •'       ;    •      ;        .. 

Two  days  on  the  deep,  blue  sea, 
Full  two  days  out  were  we ; 
And  all  that  time  besides  the  rai) 
There  stood  a  man.    His  face  was  pale, 
And  ne'er  looked  he  to  east  or  west, 
But  dropped  his  chin  upon  his  breast, 
His  eyes  upon  the  sea — 
The  rippling,  laughing  sea. 

:    ..  X]         ...'.-.         II.  I  .     -  •        v       I  •' 
The  playful  waters  lave, 
With  many  a  spraying  wave, 
The  cold,  rough  sides  of  the  dark  old  boat, 
And  reach  and  cling  to  her  rusty  coat, 
As  down  they  call  to  their  depths  so  drear, 
The  lone  man,  standing  half  in  fear 
Above  that  easy  grave, 
With  none  to  see  or  save. 

III. 

The  day  with  fading  light 

In  terror  takes  her  flight; 

Dark  clouds  with  threatening  woe, 

Wild  winds  with  moanings  low, 

Roam  o'er  the  seething,  swirling  tide ; 

And  silently  the  ship  beside 

Into  the  deeper  night 

He  slips  from  Heaven's  sight. 

GEORGE  AGNEW  CHAMBERLAIN,  1898. 
November,  1897. 


COME!  HO  FOR  A  BUMPER 
.       AND  HO  FOR  A  SONG! 
Come !  Ho  for  a  bumper  and  Ho  for  a  song, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  free, 
For  Christmas  and  joy  have  come  over  the 

land, 
And  jolly  good  fellows  are  we. 

'  "^. 
Then   draw   up   your   chairs   by   the   blazing 

hearth 

And  join  in  a  toast  with  me 
To  old   Father  Time   who  brings   Christmas 

around, 
For  jolly  good  fellows  are  we. 

Midst  fragrant  curls  of  filmy  smoke, 
Like  wreaths  of  mist  from  the  sea, 

We'll  roar  out  our  rollicking  Christmas  songs, 
For  jolly  good  fellows  are  we. 

Then  Ho  for  a  bumper  and  Ho  for  a  song, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  free, 
For  Christmas  and  joy  have  come  over  the 

land, 
And  jolly  good  fellows  are  we. 

LYTTLETON  Fox,  i! 
December,  1897. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  MARY 
STUART  FROM  FRANCE. 

["As  her  ship  sailed  out  to  sea,  the  young 
queen,  scarcely  able  to  see  through  her  tears, 
leaned  on  the  bulwark,  gazing  at  the  receding 
shores  as  long  as  she  was  able."  —  History  of 
England.] 


Well  may  those  sad  forebodings  rise  in  thee, 
Unhappy    queen!      Well    may'st    thou    strain 
thine  eye 

To  catch  a  glimpse  of  France  from  o'er  the  sea, 
Before  it  fades  forever  from  thy  sight. 

II. 

Behind  thee  is  the  tomb  of  one  well  loved  ; 

Before,  the  ghastly  shade  of  Darnley  lurks. 
Grim   Bothwell   then,   by  naught   of   good   e'er 
moved, 

Casts  his  dark  shadow  thwart  thy  thorny  path. 

III. 

The  Scotch,  men  say,  seem  ever  fierce  and  cold 
To  one  long  used  to  Southern  fire  and  warmth. 

Far  different  Scotland's  glens  and  mountains  bold 
To  plain  and  fruitful  fields  of  fading  France. 


IV. 
And  oft  in  English  prison  thou  shall  see, 

In  fancy  fond,  this  outlined  coast  of  France; 
And  long  to  burst  the  prison  bars,  and,  free, 
To  roam  abroad  once  more,  where'er  thou  wilt. 

HENRY  AVER  TRUE,  1898. 
December,  1897. 


GENIUS. 

No  Genius  ever  dragged  a  silent  life, 
Inglorious  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 

Apart  from  manly  thought  and  manly  strife 
Unmindful  of  the  glory  he  should  crave. 

No  Cromwell,  when  he  heard  the  stirring  din 
That  marks  the  raging  conflict  far  away, 

Would  damp  the  ardor  of  his  heart  within 
And  live  secluded  from  the  wordly  fray. 

No  Milton,  in  a  quiet  rustic  town, 
Would  dwell  secluded  as  the  ages  roll, 

And,  heedless  of  Ambition's  call,  would  drown 
The  noblest  inspirations  of  his  soul. 

• 

Oft  from  the  humblest,  lowliest  ranks  of  men 
Some  of  the  noblest  heroes  upward  press, 

And  reach  the  summit  after  toil  and  pain, 
Where  glory  waits  to  herald  their  success. 
LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900. 

December,  1897. 


33 


LE    CHANSON    DU    TIREUR    D'ARMES. 

I. 

The  sun  is  low,  mes  camarades, 

Upon  the  vine  -clad  hills ; 
For  us  the  Sun  of  life  is  high, 
For  ours  is  Youth  that  cannot  die, 
That  e'er  our  hearts,  through  Time  doth  fly, 

With  brimming  laughter  fills. 

ii.  x 

True  friends  are  we,  mes  camarades, 

As  ever  Time  hath  made ; 
Yet  truest  friend  to  all,  say  I, 
Is  that  which  neath  each  hilt  doth  lie, 
— The  keen  and  pliant  blade. 

.    III. 
When  drunken  knave,  mes  camarades, 

Doth  speak  my  lady's  name, 
My  plumed  chapeau  aside  I  dash, 
My  hand  darts  to  my  silken  sash 
And  quick  mon  cher  ami  doth  flash 

To  wipe  away  the  stain. 

IV. 

And  then,  pardieu!  mes  camarades, 

'Tis  "a  la  garde,  Monsieur! 
Allans!"    In  glittering  sheen  arrayed, 
With  lightning  stroke  my  flashing  blade 
By  lunge  and  parry  quickly  made, 
Death  for  the  knave's  affront  hath  paid, 

That  all  his  kind  may  fear ! 

34 


V. 

What  say  ye  then,  mes  camaradesf 

What  mortal  friend  have  ye  so  true 
That  he  will  ever,  by  thy  side, 
Through  good  or  ill,  whate'er  betide, 
Fight  for  thy  honor  and  thy  pride 
As  mon  ami  will  do? 

..",'; ..:;';.;:    vi.  |  '. '  .'  ';; ;'."  • 

The  sun  is  low,  mes  camarades; 

Ere  it  from  sight  doth  fade, 
Quick!  fill  your  flagons  to  the  brim! 
A  toast  I'd  have  you  drink  to  him 
Whose  lustre  nought  but  blood  can  dim, 
M on  cher  ami,  my  blade ! 

LYTTLETON  Fox,   i 
March,  1898. 


35 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  ROAD. 

Wen  by  de  dusty  road  de  leaves  fall  deep, 
An'  de  lonely  trees  make  cobwebs  on  de  sky, 

Wen  all  de  world  is  f  reezin'  off  to  sleep, 
An'  ev'ry  little  flower  wants  to  die, 

Wen  by  de  icy  brook  de  grass  turns  brown, 
An'  de  hedge-hog  is  a  hidin  on  de  sly, 

Wen  Summer's  dead,  an'  buried  in  de  groun', 
Den  ev'ry  tramper  t'inks  he  oughter  die. 

Oh,  shroud  me  in  de  shadow  o'  de  moon, 

Wen  de  sun's  cold  an'  de  wind's  a  whistlin* 
high; 

In  de  snow,  near  de  screechin'  o'  de  loon 
Der's  wer  a  weary  bummer  oughter  lie. 


L'Envoi. 

De  lonely,  weary  bummer  o'  de  road 
'E  laughs  an'  e*  tramples  on  a  toad 
Den  e'  knows  its  goin'  to  rain 
'Fore  'e  takes  de  road  again, 
Wen  de  rooster  in  de  barn  'as  crowed, 
An'  de  bummer  is  a  joggin'  on  de  road. 
GEORGE  AGNEW  CHAMBERLAIN,  i 
March,  1898. 


MAROONED. 
A  year  ago  they  sailed  away; 
And  yet  'twas  only  yesterday, 
They  wound  the  capstan  in  the  bay, 

And  turned  to  the  open  sea. 
They  sang  at  the  bar  in  husky  notes, 
That  turned  a  jeer  in  their  savage  throats. 
Oh,  God!  in  memory  still  it  floats, 
— The  requiem  for  me. 

NORMAN  EDWARD  NELSON,  1898. 
April,  1898. 


INVOCATION. 

The  waves  wash  cold  on  the  perilous  lea 
And  break  in  foam  o'er  the  Sisters  Three ; 
The  swirling  depths  of  vengeful  green 
Give  back  the  storm-cloud's  threatening  sheen. 
O  God,  preserve  thy  children  from  the  fury  of 
the  sea ! 

The  sea-gull,  turning  in  his  flight, 
Seeks  shelter  from  the  blasts  of  night; 
The  rushing  breakers'  solemn  roar 
Booms  sullen  on  the  rock-bound  shore. 
O  God,  preserve  thy  children  till  the  coming  of 
the  light ! 

LYTTLETON  Fox,  i< 
May,  1898. 

37 


'98  CLASS  ODE. 

On  these  the  fairest  days  and  last, 
Midst  scenes  that  tell  of  friendships  fast, 
Oh  God,  be  with  us  as  we  meet 
And  stay  each  passing  moment  fleet. 
Now  as  our  voices  rise  to  Thee, 
Grant  Thou  that  each  full  heart  may  be 
Purged  pure  from  every  trifling  hate, 
Merged  in  the  heart  of  Ninety-eight. 

Where'er  the  passing  years  may  lead, 
Whate'er  our  doubts,  whate'er  our  creed, 
Guard  Thou  this  scattered  little  band 
Within  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand. 
To  whom  the  love  of  flag  may  call, 
To  whom  the  lot  of  death  may  fall, 
Be  Thou  the  stay ;  and  in  Thy  name 
May  Ninety-eight  be  crowned  with  fame. 

By  one  last  bond  unite  our  hearts 
Ere  now,  upon  our  several  charts, 
We  seek  to  thread  each  lonely  way 
Through  pleasure's  path,  or  honor's  fray. 
These  mem'ries  that  should  never  fade 
Guard  Thou  till  dust  in  dust  is  laid ; 
And  may  true  grief  with  grandeur  swell 
Our  cry,  "Oh,  Ninety-eight,  Farewell!" 

GEORGE  AGNEW  CHAMBERLAIN,  1898. 
June,  1898. 

38 


IN  THE  AFTERGLOW. 

The  lake  is  still,  and  all  the  circling  hills 
Are  lighted  up  with  sunset's  gorgeous  dyes. 
The  sullen  pines  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 
Now  turned  to  flaming  pyramids  of  fire, 
Transfigured,  stand  inverted  in  the  flood. 
Through  fleecy  mirrored  clouds,  my  birchen  bark 
Skims  swiftly  on  its  light  and  arrowy  way. 
The  drops  that  from  my  flying  paddle  dash 
Are  gems  that  flash  a  thousand  rainbow  hues 
To  find  their  setting  in  the  molten  gold. 

The  sun  slips  down;  the  western  glory  wanes; 
The  hill-fires  die ;  the  valleys  darker  grow ; 
A  breeze  springs  up  that  stirs  the  glassy  lake ; 
The  gloomy  pines  breathe  out  a  monotone ; 
And  I  sit  thoughtful  in  the  afterglow. 

DONALD  DEWITT,  1899. 
October,  1898. 


39 


CHANGE. 

I  saw  a  warrior  at  dawn  of  day 

Standing  with  folded  arms  upon  the  shore. 
I  turned  and  watched  him  as  I  went  my  way 

This  man  of  strife  and  war. 

In  admiration  bound,  I  stood  to  gaze 
Upon  his  massive  form  and  noble  mien ; 

Upon  the  scars  that  marred  his  swarthy  face 
So  noble  and  serene. 


"Oh  man  of  war!     Oh  tower  of  strength!"  I 
mused, 

"Thy  mighty  limbs  the  storms  of  life  defy. 
Hardened  to  hardships,  and  to  war  well  used, 

Could'st  thou  decay  or  die?" 

As  sunset  came,  there  wondered  o'er  the  sands 
An  old  man,  withered  up  and  bent  with  years. 

Who  leaned  upon  the  cane  within  his  hands, 
Oppressed  by  childish  fears. 

And  in  this  tottering,  aged  man  I  saw 

The   warrior   who   in   strength   and  grandeur 
stood, 

It  could  not  be  so  many  years  before, 
Besides  this  very  wood. 


40 


And  thus  must  strength  and  beauty  fade  away; 

All  that's  lovely,  all  that's  grand  and  high. 
Thus  everything  must  wither  and  decay. 

We  live  our  life — to  die. 

LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900 
October,  1898. 


WHEN  ALL  THE  WORLD  IS  STILL. 
Softly  fall  the  shades  of  night; 
The  moon,  with  silvery  beams  of  light, 
Climbs  slowly  o'er  the  mountain's  height; 
And  all  the  world  is  still. 

The  Earth  her  mantle  round  her  folds ; 
The  bells  the  slumber  hour  have  tolled; 
The  watchman  keeps  his  vigil  bold; 

And  all  the  world  is  still. 

* 
A  wolf  steals  out  in  search  of  prey 

And  through  the  forest  wends  his  way; 
Nor  does  his  voice  raise  loud  his  bay 
When  all  the  world  is  still. 

Then  this  our  prayer :  "O !  by  Thy  might, 
Great  God,  watch  o'er  us  through  the  night ; 
Protect  and  guard  us  till  the  light!" 
When  all  the  world  is  still. 

WALTER  FOOTE  SELLERS,   1899 
October,  1898. 

41 


THE  BALLAD  OF  "TEDDY'S  TERRORS." 

As  related  by  Round-up  Rube,  of  Rattlesnake 
Gulch.  "The  Ballad  of  Teddy's  Terrors'"  is 
from  the  pen  of  a  Lawrenceville  graduate,  Mr.  S. 
F.  Whitman,  '97,  Princeton  1901.  It  is  of  par 
ticular  interest,  not  only  because  it  was  written 
by  a  Laurentian,  but  as  it  appeared  in  the  initial 
number  of  the  first  daily  paper  printed  in  the 
English  language  in  Santiago,  Cuba.  It  was 
also  published  in  the  New  York  Herald. 

I.  . 

There  was  a  lovely  regiment,  whose  men  was 

strong  and  stout, 
Fer  some  they  had  diplomas  and  fer  some  was 

warrants  out, 
And  Wood  he  was  their  colonel  bold,  an'  Teddy 

was  his  mate, 
And  they  called  'em  "Teddy's  Lambkins,"  fer 

their  gentleness  wus  great. 

-'..-.-.     II. 
Now,  a  good  ole  man  named   Shafter  says  to 

Teddy  and  to  Wood : 
'There's  a  joint  called  Santiago,  where  we  ain't 

well  understood, 
So,  take  yer  lamb-like  regiment,  and  if  you  are 

polite, 
I  think  yer  gentle  little  ways'll  set  the  matter 

right."  ;     -     ' 

42 


III. 

So,  when  Teddy's  toys  got  movin',  and  the  sun 

wus  on  the  fry, 
And  the  atmosphere  was   coaxin'  them  to  lay 

right  down  and  die, 
Some  gents  from  Santiago,  who  wus  mad'  cause 

they  wus  there, 
Lay  down  behind   some  bushes   to  put  bullets 

through  their  hair. 

IV. 
Now  Teddy's  happy  Sunday  School  was  movin' 

on  its  way, 
A-seekin'  in  its  peaceful  style  some  Dagos  fer 

to  slay; 
And  the  gents  from  Santiago,  with  aversion  in 

their  heart, 
Wus  hidin'  at  the  cross-roads  fer  to  blow  'em  all 

apart. 

v.    V 

There's  a  Spanish  comic  paper  that  has  give  us 

sundry  digs — 
A-callin'  of  us  cowards  an'   dishonest  Yankee 

pigs; 

And  I  guess  these  folks  had  read  it  and  had 

thought  'twould  be  immense 
Jest  to  paralyze  them  lambinkins  they  was  run- 

nin'  up  agains'. 

43 


VI. 
So,  when  our  boys  had  pretty  near  arrived  where 

they  wus  at, 
And  the  time  it  was  propitious  to  start  that  there 

combat, 
They  let  'er  fly,  a-thinkin'  they  would  make  a 

dreadful  tear, 
An'  then  rubber-necked  to  see  if  any  Yankees 

wus  still  there. 

VII. 

Now,  you  can  well  imagine  wot  a  dreadful  start 
they  had 

To  see  'em  still  a-standing'  there  lookin'  bold 
and  bad, 

Fer  when  this  gentle  regiment  had  heard  the  bul 
lets  fly,  v  .  :V  • 

They  had  a  vi'lent  hankerin'  to  make  them  Span 
iards  die. 

VIII. 

So,  Teddy  he  came  runnin'  with  his  glasses  on 
his  nose, 

And  when  the  Spanish  saw  his  teeth  you  may 
believe  they  froze; 

And  Wood  wus  there  'long  with  'im,  with  his 
cheese-knife  in  his  hand, 

While  at  their  heels  came  yellin'  all  that  peace 
ful,  gentle  band. 

44 


IX. 

They  fought  them  bloody  Spaniards  at  their  own 

familiar  game, 
And  the  gents  from  Santiago  didn't  like  it  quite 

the  same — 
Fer  you  plug  your  next-door  neighbor  with  a 

rifle  ball  or  two, 
An'  he  don't  feel  so  robustuous   as   when  he's 

a-pluggin'  you. 

X.         ' 

So,  when  the  shells  was  hoppin',  while  the  breech 
blocks  clicked  and  smoked, 

An'  the  powder  wouldn't  blow  away  until  a  fel 
ler  choked, 

That  regiment  of  Yankee  pigs  wus  gunnin' 
through  the  bush 

An'  raisin'  merry  hell  with  that  there  Santiago 
push. 

XL 

Then  Teddy  seen  'em  runnin',  an'  he  give  a  mon 
strous  bawl, 

And  grabbed  a  red-hot  rifle  where  a  guy  had  left 
it  fall, 

And  fixin'  of  his  spectacles  more  firmly  on  his 
face, 

He  started  to  assasinate  them  all  around  the 
place. 

45 


XII. 

So,  through  the  scrubby  underbrush,  from  bay'n't 

plant  to  tree, 
Where  the  thorns  would  rip  a  feller's  pants,  a 

shockin'  sight  to  see, 
He  led  his  boys,  a-dancin'  on,  a-shoutin'  left  and 

right, 
And  not  missin'  many  Spanish  knobs  that  shoved 

themselves  in  sight. 

'       XIII. 
And  when  them  Santiago  gents  wus  finished  to 

their  cost, 
Then  Teddy's  boys,  they  took  a  look  and  found 

that  they  wus  lost; 
And   as   their   crewel   enemies   was   freed   from 

earthly  pain, 
They  all  sat  down  to  wait  for  friends  to  lead 

'em  back  again. 

Moral. 

That's  the  tale  of  Teddy's  Terrors  and  the  val 
iant  deed  they  done; 

But  all  tales,  they  should  have  morals,  so  o' 
course  this  tale  has  one. 

So  paste  this  idea  in  yer  cage,  wot  ever  else  you 
do, 

Per  perhaps  you'll  thank  me  fer  it  yet  before  the 
game  is  through: 


The  soldier  boy  that  wears  the  blue  is  gentle- 
like  and  meek, 

But  I  doubt  he'll  mind  the  Bible  if  you  soak  him 
on  the  cheek; 

An'  should  you  git  him  riled  a  bit,  you  want  to 
have  a  care, 

Per  if  he  ever  starts  to  fight,  he'll  finish — Gawd 
knows  where! 

STEPHEN  FRENCH  WHITMAN,  1897. 

November,  i< 


[Although  this  was  not  written  while  at  Lawrenceville,  we  reprint  it 
here  with  the  headnote  as  it  appeared  in  the  Lit.  It  seemed  far  too  good 
not  to  be  preserved.  Editor.] 


47 


THE  SYLVAN  DANCE. 

Dark  shadows  fall  upon  the  woods, 
The  silver  moon  comes  forth, 

The  bright  stars  rival  in  their  light 
The  streamers  of  the  north. 

Upon  a  grassy  forest  glade 
The  moon  serene  shines  down 

And  casts  a  mystic  golden  light 
Upon  it  and  around. 

And  lo,  the  jovial  satyrs  dance 

Within  the  golden  light, 
And  join  the  graceful  forest  nymphs 

Arrayed  in  robes  of  white. 

The  scene  now  glows  and  sparkles  bright, 

Soft  music  swells  the  air, 
And  sweetly,  gayly  glide  around 

The  jovial  and  the  fair. 

They  whirl  around  the  joyous  throng; 

The  nymphs  and  satyrs  sing; 
And  gay  and  mystic  are  the  rites 

Within   the   magic   ring. 

Now  slower,  slower  grows  the  dance, 

The  light  begins  to  wane, 
The  music  softly  fades,  then  swells 

And  dies  away  agsin. 

48 


Oh,  softly,  softly  strike  the  lute, 
The  dance  is  growing  slow, 

And  sadly  dim  the  shadows  flit 
And  slowly  fades  the  glow. 

The  sylvan  bells  have  died  away, 
The  moonlight  glade  is  cleared 

And  all  the  gentle  forest  nymphs 
Have  fled  and  disappeared. 

How  quickly  all  bright  visions  come 

And  quickly  fade  away; 
But  leave  their  charm  upon  the  heart 
Forever  and   for  aye! 
LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900. 
December,  1898. 


DRINKING  SONG. 
Come  fill  a  glass  to-night,  my  boys, 

And  drink  to  the  world,  care- free; 
O!     Life  for  us  is  bright,  my  boys, 

And  a  merry  company  we. 

The  foaming  mug  is  nigh,  my  boys, 
And  the  hearth-fire  lends  its  glow; 

The  foaming  mug  is  nigh,  my  boys, 
And  the  cider  simmers  slow. 

The  wind  without  is  cold,  my  boys, 
And  the  snow  falls  thick  and  fast. 

To-night  the  year  is  old,  my  boys, 
So  drink  to  the  old  year  past. 

Then  fill  your  glasses  high,  my  boys, 
While  the  cold  wind  outside  blows ; 
The  foaming  mug  is  nigh,  my  boys, 
So  drink,  while  the  red  wine  flows ! 

WALTER   FOOTE   SELLERS,    1899. 
December,   1898. 


THE  YARN  OF  THE  "ROARING  RIP." 

O !   A  bully  ship  was  the  Roaring  Rip 

And  a  jolly  crew  had  she. 
Her  captain  was  a  sailorman  old, 
A  child  of  the  foaming  sea. 

We  sailed  away  on  a  sunny  day, 

The  water  was  blue  and  clear. 
The  jolly  tars  had  manned  the  spars, 

And  our  wives  shed  many  a  tear. 

Then  a  storm  arose,  and  the  wind  she  blows, 

So  the  sails  was  flapping  wild ; 
The  waves  rose  high  and  touched  the  sky 

As  the  water  was  some'at  riled. 

So  we  lightens  the  ship,  the  Roaring  Rip, 

And  the  cargo  overboard  goes, 
And  we  flies  along  with  the  breeze  so  strong 

That  it  lifts  us  off  our  toes. 

The  bos'n,  says  he,  "Let's  pirates  be 

And  sail  the  Spanish  main. 
We'll  take  the  gold  from  many  a  hold 

And  many  a  ship  we'll  claim." 

Now  the  scheme  was  good,   so  we  said  we 
would, 

And  we  ups  with  the  jolly  black  flag, 
But  the  captain  gay  we  stows  away: 

'Tis  dead  men  what  don't  brag. 


Then  we  brings  the  guns — which  weighed  some 
tons — 

And  we  points  'em  out  to  sea, 
And  we  loads  'em  there,  to  the  muzzle  fair, 

Since  we  pours  the  lead  in  free. 

In  the  Roaring  Rip  we  takes  our  trip, 

But  nary  a  ship  we  found, 
Till  a  stormy  night,  with  the  bos'n  tight, 

The  ship  she  runs  aground. 

Then  we  left  her  there,  her  bow  in  air, 

The  bos'n  we  leaves  behind — 
As  we  rowed  away  at  the  break  of  day 

We  seed  her  sides  unbind. 

Now  a  phantom  ship  is  the  Roaring  Rip 

And  a  ghostly  crew  has  she, 
But  the  black  flag  flies  for  phantom  eyes 
As  she  silently  sails  the  sea. 

WALTER  FOOTE  SELLERS,  1899. 
January,  1899. 


LULLABY. 
De  san'  man's  comin'  in  yo'  eyes 

Shet  yo'  eyes,  ma  baby ! 
De  stars  is  twinklin'  in  de  skies. 

Shet  yo'  eyes,  ma  baby ! 
De  big  white  moon  'bove  de  hill 
Is  shinin'  on  de  ol'  co'n  mill, 
A-listenin'  to  de  whip-po'-will. 

Shet  yo'  eyes,  ma  baby ! 

De  wolf's  a-prowlin'  in  de  night. 

Shet  yo'  eyes,  ma  baby ! 
De  ghosts  is  walkin'  till  de  light. 

Shet  yo'  eyes,  ma  baby ! 
But  mammy's  here,  so  don'  yo'  cry, 
Dey  ain'  a-gwine  to  make  yo'  die; 
She's  gwine  to  watch  yo',  settin'  by. 

Shet  yo'  eyes,  ma  baby ! 

WALTER  FOOTE  SELLERS,  1899. 
February,  1899. 


53 


THE  SPANISH  GALLEON. 

The  crimson  sun  in  the  golden  west 
'Neath  the  circling  skies  has  sunk  to  rest. 
The  falling  shades  of  the  southern  night 
Are  pressing  hard  the  failing  light, 
And  the  waters  deep  of  the  sunset  seas 
Are  gently  swayed  by  the  zephyr  breeze. 

s  \ 

Forth  sailing  slowly  o'er  the  main, 
Flying  the  quartered  flag  of  Spain, 
Moves  a  galleon,  strong  and  old, 
Bearing  her  precious  freight  of  gold. 
Her  snow-white  sails  the  breeze  invite 
As  they  waft  her  into  the  deep'ning  night. 

Over  the  waters  her  shining  lights 

Move  like  a  ghost  through  the  heavy  night ; 

Whilst  from  her  deck  comes  voices  gay, 

And  music  soft,  as  the  sailors  play 

For  those  who  sing.    And  the  cup  goes  round, 

For  the  Spanish  galleon's  homeward  bound. 
*         *          *          *          *          *          * 

Gone  are  the  blackened  shades  of  night; 

Forth  comes  the  sun  ablaze  with  light. 

But  gone  is  the  galleon,  strong  and  old; 

Gone  is  her  precious  load  of  gold ; 

For  the  Spanish  galleon,  homeward  bound, 

'Neath  the  southern  deep  her  home  has  found. 

WALTER  FOOTE  SELLERS,  1899. 
March,  1899. 

54 


THE  TOAST. 

I  raised  the  goblet  in  the  air 

With  its  weight  of  solid  gold. 
What  is  the  wine  that  sparkles  there 
Is  it  clear  Champagne,  or  Madeira  fair  ? 
Or  Burgundy,  good  and  old  ? 

"A  toast,  my  friend,  I  drink  to  you !" 

And  I  lifted  the  goblet  up. 
But  the  wine  had  lost  its  amber  hue — 
'Twas  merely  a  glitt'ring  drop  of  dew, 

And  the  glass  was  a  buttercup. 
LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900. 
March,  1899. 


55 


THE  FISHER  FLEET. 

Fifty  barks  sail  down  the  bay, 

Down  the  bay  from  Gloucester  town ; 

Fifty  sails  show  white  as  wool 

In  the  western  light  as  the  sun  goes  down. 

Fifty  schooners  light  and  trim, 

Pushed  their  prows  through  the  hissing  foam ; 

Fifty  skippers  on  their  decks, 

Turn  for  a  lingering  look  toward  home. 

Fifty  wives  stand  on  the  wharves, 
And  watch  them  down  the  harbor  go, 
Till  they  double  Eastern  Point, 
And  pass  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

When  at  last  their  tear-dimmed  eyes, 
The  distant  sails  no  more  can  see, 
With  saddened  hearts  they  turn  away, 
Filled  with  dread  for  the  days  to  be. 

Storms  will  come  with  bitter  winds ; 
And  fogs  are  sudden  and  waves  are  deep. 
Hearts  must  break  and  homes  be  sad, 
When  comes  again  the  fisher  fleet. 

DONALD  DE  WITT,  1899. 
April,  1899. 

j 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  STORM. 

I   come   from  the  icy  north,   I  come   from  the 

Boreal  Pole, 

From  the  land  of  the  lashing  hail, 
Borne  in  the  boisterous  North  Wind's  flight, 
Far  from  Aurora's  flashing  light, 
Borne  with  my  people,  the  snow  flakes  white, 
With  a  fleecy  cloud  for  a  sail. 

We   struggled   and   strove,   we   fought  with  the 

heat, 

We  humbled  the  pride  of  the  sun, 
But  my  warriors  bold,  o'ercome  in  the  fight 
Whirling  and  drifting  adown  in  their  flight 
Covered  the  earth  in  her  trembling  fright; 
At  last  the  heat  has  won. 

Now  back  to  the  icy  north,  back  to  the  Boreal 

Pole, 

To  the  land  of  the  lashing  hail. 
Borne  in  my  flight  by  a  hurricane's  might, 
Back  once  more  to  the  Northern  Light, 
Back  to  my  people,  the  snow  flakes  white, 
Soaring  swiftly  I  sail. 

PRESTON  DAVIE,  1900. 
April,  1899. 


57 


'99  CLASS  ODE. 

O  God,  be  with  us  on  this  day, 

Our  Pilot  and  our  Guide; 
Do  Thou  these  parting  moments  stay 

Before  our  paths  divide. 
Soon  forth  upon  Life's  surging  sea 

Our  courses  we  shall  steer. 
Grant  that  our  voyage  safe  may  be, 

While  Thou  art  ever  near! 

We  who  so  long  have  formed  this  band 

Are  gathered  on  the  shore ; 
Our  ships  are  anchored  near  the  strand — 

Our  hymns  Thy  aid  implore. 
From  breakers'  roar  and  treacherous  wind 

Keep  us  forever  free, 
And  guide  at  last  our  barks  within 

The  harbor,  safe  with  Thee. 

Where'er  our  craft  the  drifting  tide 

Shall  bear  upon  the  flood, 
Sweet  shall  the  memory  e'er  abide 

Of  this  our  brotherhood. 
We  know  not  what  our  lives  shall  be — 

O'er  waters  sweet  or  brine; 
But  tear-dimmed  eyes  bespeak  our  plea ; 
"God  speed  thee,  Ninety-nine!" 

WALTER  FOOTE  SELLERS,  1899. 
June,  1899. 

58 


ANDREE'S  FATE. 

Beyond  the  spot  where  mortal  man  doth  tread 
There  is  a  place,  so  cold,  so  drear,  so  dead, 
That  earth  assumes  the  stillness  of  the  grave, 
In  the  land  of  the  Frozen  Wave. 

Here  Andree  lies  amidst  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  all  year  round  the  winds  his  dirges  blow; 
In  Science'  name  his  daring  life  he  gave, 
In  the  land  of  the  Frozen  Wave. 

How  hard  it  was  for  him  to  die  alone, 
No  loving  friend  to  speak  in  soothing  tone! 
All  hail  the  men  who  die  a  death  so  brave, 
In  the  land  of  the  Frozen  Wave. 

The  days  will  pass  and  years  will  come  and  go, 
But  where  he  lies  no  man  will  ever  know, 
His  tomb  a  lofty  berg  or  icy  cave 

In  the  land  of  the  Frozen  Wave. 
CHARLES  HUNTINGTON  STARKWEATHER,  JR., 

1900. 
November,  1899. 


59 


THE  MIRAGE. 

The  sinking  sunbeams  glisten  on  the  sands, 
The  desert  stretches  wide  in  golden  light, 

And  far  away  the  distant  caravans 

Wind  ever   on,   and   disappear   from   sight, 

Where  flocks  of  fleecy  clouds  are  skimming  past 

To  sink  and  settle  in  the  west  at  last. 


• 


But  lo  !  the  heavens  seem  to  burst  in  flame, 
Wildly  the  hordes  of  Islam  hasten  on 

Shouting  aloud  their  warlike  prophet's  name 
They  sweep  along  beneath  the  setting  sun, 

They  pass  with  trampling  steeds,  and  clang  of 
arms, 

And  earth  re-echoes  with  their  wild  alarms. 


And  now  the  red  has  mellowed  into  gold, 
Vast  cities  seem  to  stretch  from  sea  to  sea, 

In  pomp  and  glory  and  in  wealth  untold 
A  scene  of  oriental  luxury. 

The  dome-crowned  mosques  and  palaces  arise 

Mid  palms  and  gardens  green  against  the  skies. 

Slowly  the  gold  dissolves,  the  cities  fall, 
The  gilded  scene  now  softly  fades  away  ; 

Here  stands  a  column  or  a  shattered  wall, 
While  all  the  rest  has  vanished  with  the  day. 

At  last  these  very  remnants  disappear, 

And  the  lone  desert  spreads  out  dark  and  drear. 

60 


Thus,  Oh,  Arabia !  was  thy  sudden  rise, 

Thy  wealth,  thy  grandeur,  and  thy  swift  de 
cline  ; 
And  thou  hast  left  few  relics  for  our  eyes; 

Yet  one  attests  thy  glory  to  mankind, 
The  great  Alhambra  stands  at  this  late  hour 
The  last  and  noblest  relic  of  thy  power. 

LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900. 
November,  1899. 


5i 


THE  IDOL. 

For  himself  man  made  an  Idol 
Of  glory,  and  power  and  wealth. 

In  the  sweat  of  his  brow  and  the  blood  of  his 

heart, 
He  drank  to  his  Idol's  health. 

Of  his  honor,  his  toil,  and  his  life-work 

He  made  it  a  sacrifice, 
And  the  Idol  that  he  in  his  youth  had  framed 

Had  cost  him  a  ghastly  price. 

At  last  his  ambition  was  sated, 
Of  his  soul  he  had  lost  all  trace. 

Gray  haired  and  bent  with  worry  and  care 
He  had  taken  his  Idol's  place. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  world  around  him 

And  he  knew  his  Idol  had  lied. 
With  a  fruitless  life  and  a  broken  heart 
He  cursed  his  Idol  and  died. 

FRANK  LORD  WARRIN,  JR.,  1900. 
February,  1900. 


62 


'TIS  BETTER  SO. 

We  wandered  o'er  the  meadows  fair 

We  wandered  o'er  the  lea, 
She  with  her  loose  and  waving  hair 

And  grace  so  wild  and  free. 
Roll  ever  on  ye  little  brook, 

And  roll  right  merrily ! 
For  we  alone  are  all  the  world 

And  she  is  all  for  me. 

They  wandered  o'er  the  meadows  fair 

They    wandered    o'er    the    lea, 
And  she  had  bound  her  flowing  hair, 

And  lost  that  grace  so  free. 
Roll  sadly  on  ye  little  brook, 

And   roll  on  wearily, 
For  there  are  others  in  the  world, 

And  she's  no  more  for  me. 

And  yet  'tis  better  so  perhaps, 

For  frank  and  brave  is  he. 
The  eighteenth  summer  ever  saps 

A  grace  so  wild  and  free. 
So  let  them  wander  hand  in  hand 

A  happy  pair  to  see, 
And  leave  me  lonely  with  my  pipe, 

She's  far  too  good  for  me. 

LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900. 
February,  1900. 

63 


FANATICS. 
Accursed  they  stand  a  lonely  band 

From  age  to  age; 
Long  have  they  borne  the  brunt  of 

Contempt  and  rage. 

They  saw  life  through  a  crooked  view ; 

This  was  the  crime 
For  which  they  bled,  nor  flinched,  nor  fled 

In  every  clime. 

They  dared  to  fight  for  what  was  right 

As  they  believed, 
And  shut  their  ears  to  all  the  jeers 

Which  they  received. 

Their  bodies  wet  with  blood  and  sweat, 

They  did  not  swerve ; 
And  Heaven  knows  they  bore  their  blows 

With  grit  and  nerve. 

They  sowed  the  seeds  of  mighty  deeds 

Both  good  and  bad, 
And  those  that  saw  looked  on  in  awe 

And  called  them  mad. 

Too  great  a  flood  of  such  fierce  blood 

Might  wreck  mankind, 
Yet  they  inspire  the  world  with  fire, 
Zeal  unconfined. 

LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900. 
March,  1900. 

64 


THE  LOST  KING. 

An  antiquary  roaming  midst  the  Persian  sands 
Once  chanced  upon  a  bit  of  crumbling  wall, 

Reared  years  and  years  before,  by  patient  human 

hands, 
To  one  self-styled  "The  King  and  Lord  of  all." 

Rejoicing  at  this  happy  chance,  he  summoned 

men, 

And  round  that  relic  of  the  past  King's  fame 
He  bade  them  dig  a  mighty  trench — and  then 
Began   to   search   the   stones   for  this   King's 
name. 

He  read  of  untold  wealth,  of  temples  to  the  sun; 

He  saw  the  speechless  glories  of  the  past; 
He  read  of  fruitful  years  of  peace,  of  battles 
won. 

Though  lost  the  name,  the  deeds  forever  last. 

He  wondered  at  the  might  of  this  great  King  of 

old; 

A  stone  from  out  the  wall  fell  to  the  ground; 
Behind  it  lay  a  skull  upon  a  heap  of  gold. 

He  sought  the  name  no  more,  the  King  was 
found. 

FRANK  LORD  WARRIN,  JR.,  1900. 
April,   1900. 


65 


MEMORY. 

Ah,  Memory,  come  and  take  me  in  thy  boat, 
Thy  gilded  shell  upon  the  waves  of  time; 

And  silently  and  calmly  let  us  float 
Back  to  the  past  sublime, 
The  shadowy  past  of  poetry  and  rhyme; 

Come  Memory! 

ik^ 

\ 
And  verily  thou  art  a  magic  queen, 

Ruling  a  kingdom  vast  and  undefined; 
And  thou  canst  show  me  faces  I  have  seen, 
And  open  eyes  now  blind, 
And  let  me  live  the  life  that's  left  behind; 
Strange  Memory ! 

! 

For  thou  hast  potent  charms  that  seem  to  throw 
A  glamour  o'er  the  past  before  my  sight, 

That  softens,  sweetens  even  grief  and  woe, 
And  makes  all  pleasures  bright, 
Until  they  glow  with  soft,  delicious  light; 
Sweet  Memory! 

Thus  drifting  ever  on  from  spot  to  spot, 

Bring  up  thy  fading  visions  to  my  eyes, 
And  scenes  but  half  remembered,  half  forgot; 
Let  shadowy  figures  rise 

That  dreamlike  fade  and  leave  me  but  their 
sighs; 

Vague  Memory ! 

66 


Why  wilt  thou  ever  whisper  as  we  fly 

That  all  this  is  unreal  and  truth  is  stern? 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  mourn  for  times  gone  by, 
Times  which  cannot  return  ? 
And  must  I  ever  long  and  ever  yearn, 
Sad  Memory! 

Ay,  truth  is  stern  and  all  must  fade  away; 

Thy  dreams  and  mystic  visions  must  depart; 
So  waft  me  back  into  the  light  of  day. 
I  know  not  whence  thou  art, 
But  this  I  know,  that  thou  wilt  tear  my  heart, 

Oh  Memory! 

LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900. 
May,   1900. 


THE  NORTH  POLE. 

All  dark  and  cold,  mysterious,  sublime, 
She  sits  upon  the  summit  of  the  earth, 

Where  she  will  be  until  the  end  of  time 
And  has  been  since  its  birth. 

A  corselet  of  smooth  ice,  unbroken  bright 
Covers  her  breast;  and  stretching  everywhere 

Reflects  and  radiates  in  golden  light 
Her  locks  of  waving  hair. 

The  dark  folds  of  her  purple  mantle  float, 
Set  with  diamonds,  wide  and  far 

And  one  bright  diamond  clasps  it  on  her  throat, 
The  gleaming  polar  star. 

And  siren-like  she  entices  men  to  death, 
Brave  mariners  who  fear  not  sea  or  sky, 

She  breathes  upon  them  with  her  icy  breath 
Until  they  freeze  and  die. 

Destruction  waits  the  men  who  seek  to  know 

Her  secrets,  or  to  look  upon  her  face ; 
Except  the  dull,  unthinking  Esquimo, 
Her  people  and  her  race. 

LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900. 
June,  1900. 


68 


THE  STORM  BIRDS. 

When  the  storm  clouds  hang  o'er  the  raging  sea, 
And  the  black  waves  dash  up  angrily, 
Tossing  their  white  waves  to  and  fro, 
To  sink  again  in  the  depths  below ; 
When  the  thunder  rolls  and  the  winds  rush  by 
With  a  dismal  moan,  then  the  sea  gulls  fly 
Like  a  fleet  of  ships  on  the  raging  ocean 
Rising  and  falling  with  ceaseless  motion; 
They  tack  to  right  and  to  left,  then  sail 
With  their  white  wings  fluttering  in  the  gale ; 
For  they  love  the  storm  and  the  ocean's  roar 
With  the  ardor  of  warriors  going  to  war, 
And  their  screams  amid  the  lightning's  flash 
And  the  howling  wind  and  the  thunder  crash 
Ring  like  the  piercing  war-cry,  clear 
'Mid  the  din  of  the  battle,  far  and  near. 
Thus  fly  the  sea  gulls,  and  oft  I  think, 
As  I  watch  them  over  the  ocean's  brink, 
That  these  wild  vultures  of  storm  and  strife 
Are  the  souls  of  the  Vikings  gone  from  life ; 
Homeless  and  restless,  and  wild  and  free, 
They  must  ever  roam  o'er  the  boundless  sea. 

LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900. 
June,  1900. 


CLASS  ODE   (1900). 

The  final  hour  of  parting  is  at  hand. 
We  who  so  long  have  formed  this  little  band 
Of  friends  and  classmates,  gather  in  a  throng 
With  reverent  hearts  to  sing  our  farewell  song. 

And  as  we  stand  assembled  heart  to  heart 
We  know  that  soon  the  time  will  come  to  part, 
And  ere  the  echoes  of  our  hymn  are  o'er 
The  class  of  Naughty-naught  will  be  no  more. 

Thou  God  of  love  and  friendship,  through  the 

past 

It  was  Thy  care  that  made  our  friendship  fast; 
Through   four  long  years  of  pleasure  toil  and 

play, 
It  was  Thy  hand  that  led  us  on  our  way. 

These  scenes,  the  friends  and  comrades  grown 

so  dear, 

We  owe  to  Thee,  so  be  Thou  ever  near; 
Keep  in  our  hearts  the  lessons  Thou  hast  taught 
While  we  were  yet  the  sons  of  Naughty-naught. 

These  pleasant  scenes  will  shortly  fade  away, 
Our  school-life  be  a  thing  of  yesterday  ;- 
And  we  ourselves  be  scattered  far  and  wide, 
Yet  may  the  sacred  memories  e'er  abide. 

70 


Within  our  deepest  souls  through  good  or  ill 
Be  Thou,  O  Lord,  our  Guide  and  Guardian  still, 
That  ever  we,  in  word  and  deed  and  thought, 
Bring  honor  to  the  class  of  Naughty-naught. 

LEWIS  WOODRUFF  HORNBLOWER,  1900 
June,  1900. 


HIGH  IDEALS. 
What  is  it  forms  a  man  ? 

What  is  it  moulds  his  life? 
What  is  it  keeps  him  strong, 

And  helps  him  meet  the  strife? 

'Tis  not  the  praise  of  men, 

'Tis  not  the  glory  won, 
'Tis  not  the  strength  of  limb, 

That  wins  the  true  "Well  done!" 

But  'tis  the  lofty  aims 

By  all  true  men  possessed, 
In  thought  and  word  and  deed 
That  are  to  others  blest. 

JOHN  STEWART  BURGESS,  '01, 
October,  1900. 


TWILIGHT. 

The  birds  have  sung  their  evening  song. 

The  fiery  sun  has  set; 
But  in  the  west — a  dying  light — 

The  twilight  lingers  yet. 
An  owl  begins  his  doleful  call, 

A  weird  and  piteous  cry. 
A  cricket  never  ceasing  chirps; 

The  weeping  willows  sigh. 

One  by  one  the  stars  appear, 

And  waking  blink  their  eyes. 
The  moon  glows  brighter  'mid  the  clouds, 

As  slow  the  daylight  dies. 
'Tis  in  the  twilight  hours  we  see 

The  work  of  God's  own  hand, 
The  beauty  of  his  handiwork, 

Immeasurably  grand. 

EDWARD  GUSTAV  KAROW,  '01. 
November,  1900. 


EVENING  PRAYER. 

The  twilight's  waning  light  is  o'er ; 

The  noises  of  the  day, 
The  murmurings  of  the  sunset  hour 

Have  gently  passed  away. 

The  creatures  of  the  night  still  lie 

In  woodland  dens  afar; 
No  stealthy  bird,  nor  prowling  beast 

Does  yet  the  stillness  mar. 

The  silence  of  the  grave  o'erspreads 
The  world  deprived  of  light; 

'Tis  but  a  momentary  lull 
Before  the  wails  of  night. 

The  winds  are  laid,  and  not  a  sound 

Disturbs  the  listless  air ; 
The  pious  earth  all  reverently 
Is  offering  evening  prayer. 

EDWARD  GUSTAV  KAROW,  1901, 
December,  1900. 


73 


WHIPPOORWILL. 

From  wild,  untrodden,  wooded  hills, 

When  twilight's  gloom  is  settling  'round, 
And  joyous  day  its  noises  stills, 

And  night  is  whispering  her  sound, 
There  comes  a  faint  low  call,  an  ominous  whist 
ling  cry  is  heard ; 

JTis  piteous,  solemn,  sad,  the  mourning  of  this 
evening  bird. 

It  is  some  spirit  wandering  'round, 

Restless,  seeking  where  to  lie, 
Turned  to  a  bird  to  haunt  the  ground ; 

In  solitude  to  mourn  and  cry. 
Like  death  a  gloom  reigns  o'er  the  forest,  every 

tree  is  still; 

Alone  is  heard  the  weird  call  of  the  witch-bird, 
Whippoorwill. 

EDWARD  GUSTAV  KAROW,  1901. 
March,  1901. 


74 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  LOVE  SONG. 

Thine  eyes  are  as  the  deep  blue  sky, 

Thy  locks  are  like  the  sun's  bright  rays, 

Thy  heart  is  true  and  sweet  and  pure, 
Thy  love  shall  last  through  endlesss  days. 

Oh,  forest,  blush  with  crimson  leaf ; 

Ah,  meadow,  hide  thy  soft  green  grass ; 
Oh,  streamlet,  at  thyself  now  laugh ; 

Ye  all  are  cheap,  by  this  fair  lass. 

Be  gone,  ye  stars !    Go  hence,  thou  moon ! 

Thy  gleam  no  more  I  ask; 
Enough  the  light  of  those  fair  eyes, 

Enough  for  every  task. 

Be  glad,  ye  sheep,  oh,  run  and  leap ; 

Rejoice,  thou  hound,  so  true  and  fast; 
Rejoice  with  me!    Be  glad!    Rejoice! 
Thy  mistress  now  has  come  at  last ! 

JOHN  STEWART  BURGESS,  1901. 
March,  1901. 


75 


THE   PESSIMIST. 

When  the  cotton-woods  are  sighing, 
And  their  cotton  has  been  flying 

Through  the  air. 

When  the  cows  are  softly  lowing 
And  the  warmest  winds  are  blowing 

O'er  the  land. 

Something  tells  me,  'gainst  my  fearing, 
That  'tis  summer  I  am  hearing 

'Round  my  house. 

Though  the  bluebirds  all  are  singing 
And  the  oriole's  nest  is  swinging 

In  the  tree; 

Though  the  little  brook  is  purling 
And  the  flowers  are  uncurling 

In  the  fields : 

Yet  I  am  not  quite  believing 
That  the  winter  we  are  leaving, 

Which  I  love. 

Thus  the  summer  comes  in  flowing, 
Although  no  one  has  the  knowing 

How  it  came. 

STERLING  MORTON,  1902. 
May,  1901. 


CLASS  ODE   (1901). 

Fast  falls  the  ling'ring  light  of  eve, 
On  sweet  remembrances  we  leave, 

On  friendships  tried  and  true. 
Come,  let  us  sing  our  song  of  praise 
To  Him  who  helped  us  in  those  days, 

Whose  care  we  ever  knew. 

O  God,  we  have  been  led  by  Thee, 
And  pray  that  ever  we  shall  be 

Beneath  Thy  mighty  hand. 
Do  Thou  by  us  for  e'er  abide, 
And  mayst  Thou  ever  be  the  Guide 

And  Guardian  of  our  land. 

Each  one  of  us  a  faithful  son, 
Has  always  been,  of  Naughty-One, 

And  so  we  shall  be  still: 
We'll  ever  see  the  past  sublime, 
The  memory  of  the  happy  time, 

We  spent  in  Lawrenceville. 

We  pray  Thee,  God,  be  by  our  side, 
Be  with  us  when  our  paths  divide, 

And  when  our  work  is  done. 
And  bless  to  us  the  memories  dear, 
Of  these  four  golden  years  spent  here 
In  dear  old  Naughty-One. 

EDWARD  GUSTAV  KAROW,  1901. 
June,  1901. 

77 


A  RHYMED  ENDING 

And  so  goodbye — above  is  my  address. 

A  slight  demand — I  would  that  hand  caress, 

With  clos'd  eyes,  in  sweet  surmise  that  you 

Are  near,  perchance.    Tis  but  a  trance,  'tis  true — 

For  what  I've  kissed,  dissolves  in  mist  and  air, 

And  melts  and   falls  and  leaves   the  walls   all 

bare — 

A  sputt'ring  light,  a  pen  to  write,  and  ink, 
Old  Solitude,  and  me  to  brood  and  think 
My  lonely  thoughts,  much  out  of  sorts  and  blue, 
In  silence  deep,  almost  sleep — of  you. 

FREDERIC  HOWELL  BEHR,  1902. 
October,  1901. 


02  CLASS  ODE. 

The  time  of  parting  now  has  come, 
And  casts  o'er  all  a  sombre  gloom, 

That  makes  the  world  seem  sad; 
Contrasted  with  the  past  so  bright, 
The  future  looms  up  like  a  night, 

In  deepest  myst'ry  clad. 

But  come !    let's  sing  our  hymn  of  praise, 
In  gratitude  for  those  glad  days 

Which  now  are  nearly  through; 
And  let  us  also  chant  the  prayer, 
That  God  may  ever  watch  with  care 

O'er  each  of  Naughty-Two. 

For  all  the  favor  to  us  shown, 

For  all  the  friends  that  we  have  known, 

We  sing  this  thankful  song; 
And  even  more  than  all  the  rest, 
For  Lawrenceville,  so  richly  blessed, 

Our  chorus  we  prolong. 

And  when  we've  gone  from  out  this  home 
And  start  forth  through  the  world  to  roam, 

Our  place  in  life  to  fill, 
Oh  Lord,  watch  o'er  this  school  each  hour 
Protect  and  guide  her  by  Thy  power 
And  bless  dear  Lawrenceville  . 

JOHN  CADWALADER  WALLER,  1902. 
June,  1902. 

79 


THE  SPIRITS  OF  THE  STORM. 

Softly  we  come, 
Clad  in  the  humid  air, 

Borne  on  the  darkening  cloud ; 
Thunder  our  drum, 
Our  torch  the  lightning's  flare; 

Deep  mists  our  steeds  enshroud. 

The  air  we  cool; 

We  still  the  wand' ring  breeze, 

A  deathly  quiet  make; 
We  still  the  pool; 
We  quiet  all  the  trees. 

We  make  all  nature  quake. 

Then  grandly  on! 

The  heralds  of  the  fight, 

In  all  our  gallant  form; 
With  rolling  drum, 
With  torches  shining  bright — 
Outriders  of  the  storm. 

FREDERICK  MORGAN  HARRIS,  1903. 
October,  1902. 


80 


VENICE, 

My  gondola  glides  in  the  night 
Away  from  the  music  and  song ; 

Like  a  watchful  eye  its  light 
Gleams  softly  the  ripples  along. 

In  the  open,  the  wan  moonlight 
Shines  soft  o'er  the  quiet  sea; 

And  makes  a  pathway  bright 
From  the  rim  of  the  sea  to  me. 

The  gondola  drifts  to  the  shore, 
And  the  music  has  died  away ; 

And  echoes  of  voices  of  yore 

Join  the  whispers  of  reeds  by  the  bay. 

They  tell  of  a  stately  city, 
Of  poverty,  gems,  and  gold  ; 

Where  men  without  heart  or  pity 
Their  honor  for  riches  sold ; 

Of  women  graceful  and  fair, 

And  of  men,  ere  the  break  of  day, 

For  the  sake  of  a  curl  of  hair, 

WTho  were  found,  face  down,  in  the  bay. 

GUSTAVUS  NORDHAL   SNOW,    1905. 

December,  1902. 


81 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MEADOW  LARK. 

Although  the  earth  is  brown  and  drear, 
And  snow-flakes  fast  are  falling, 

Across  the  lonely  barren  fields 
There  sounds  a  clear  voice  calling, 
Spring  o'  the  year. 

Again  the  hopeful  voice  I  hear, 

When  loud-mouthed  winds  are  blowing, 

And  chill  rains  sweep  across  the  land, 
Like  silver  music  flowing, 
Spring  o'  the  year. 

Up  from  the  grasses,  gray  and  sere, 

The  song  of  joy  is  springing; 
And  to  the  winter-weary  heart 
This  gladd'ning  news  is  bringing, 
Spring  o'  the  year. 

TERTIUS  VAN  DYKE,  1904. 
March,  1903. 


82 


NIGHT. 

The  broad  sun  sank  in  the  ruby  west, 
Leaving  the  world  in  a  golden  glow ; 

The  summer  breeze  dropped  down  to  rest 
As  the  evening  light  sank  low. 

The  darkness  fell,  and  night  came  on; 

Then  ope'd  her  thousand  eyes 
The  stars  which  shine  until  the  dawn, 

A  light  unto  the  skies. 

And  the  warp  of  night's  robe  was  a  moonbeam, 
'Twas  spangled  with  glowing  light; 

And  the  woof  was  a  comet's  shimmering  sheen 
Which  glanced  and  glimmered  bright. 

The  moon  was  queenly  and  fair, 

And  she  loved  each  little  flower, 

And  kissed  it  with  infinite  care, 

In  meadow,  in  garden  and  bower. 

Then  slowly  she  climbed  the  sky, 

And  floated  into  the  night  ; 
Then  silvered  the  edge  of  a  cloud  on  high 

As  she  drifted  out  of  my  sight. 

GUSTAVUS  NORDHALL   SNOW,    1905 

April,  1903. 


83 


THE  PINES. 

Tall  and  stately  stand  the  pine-trees, 

Rising  skyward  straight  and  fair, 
Arching  high  their  vaulted  branches, 

Sleeping  in  the  fragrant  air ; 
Calm  and  peaceful  in  her  grandeur, 

Nature  reverently  proclaims 
Him  who  made  her  wondrous  beauty, 

Him  who  ruleth  her  domains, 


Here  and  there,  like  glints  of  sunshine 

Piercing  through  sad  gloomy  days, 
Little  birds,  with  hearts  o'erflowing, 

Chant  their  tuneful  roundelays; 
Singing  to  the  God  who  made  them, 

Clear  and  sweet  through  silent  wood, 
Radiant  in  the  summer  sunshine, 

Singing  as  the  seraphs  should. 


And  the  balsam  wafts  its  fragrance, 

Fresh  and  pure  as  sweet  spring  flowers 
Fondled  by  the  April  sunshine, 

Nestling  shy  in  woodland  bowers. 
O'er  the  redolent  pine-needles 

Shadowy  fretwork  laughs  at  play, 
Mimicking  fair  Nature's  beauty, 

Gamboling  as  the  branches  sway. 


When  at  eve  the  night  sun  glimmers 

Through  the  swaying  silvery  boughs, 
Gaunt-like  sceptres  loom  the  pine-trees, 

Rearing  high  their  moon-tipped  brows ; 
Waiting,  watching,  sad  and  silent, 

Sighing  in  the  soft  sad  light, 
Hush'd  they  stand  like  souls  enchanted, 

Looming  weird  into  the  night. 

FRANCIS  BOWES  SAYRE,  1904. 
May,  1903. 


THE  ROBIN. 

When  the  golden  sun  is  rising 
On  some  day  in  leafy  spring, 

If  you  wander  in  the  garden 
You  may  hear  the  robin  sing. 

Clearly  sounds  his  joyous  carol, 
Loud  his  cheerful  song  of  praise 
For  the  beauty  of  the  morning 
And  the  coming  summer  days. 

When  the  sun  his  course  is  ending, 
Sinking  in  the  glowing  west, 

And  among  the  distant  hilltops 
Slowly  sinks  to  peaceful  rest ; 

Like  an  evening  benediction 
Peals  the  robin's  simple  hymn, 

While  the  length'ning  shadows  deepen 
And  the  world  grows  dark  and  dim, 

Then  the  stars,  with  timid  glances, 

From  the  sky  begin  to  peep, 
And  the  robin  stops  his  singing, 
For  the  world  is  lost  in  sleep. 

TERTIUS  VAN  DYKE,  1904. 
May,  1903. 


86 


WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

The  sun  has  sunk  behind  the  hill 

And  all  the  world  lies  calm  and  still ; 

A  gray  mist  on  the  river  floats, 

Like  sails  of  many  phantom  boats ; 

The  thrush  has  ceased  her  evening  hymn, 

For  all  the  woods  are  dark  and  dim ; 

Now,  with  his  plaintive  note  and  shrill, 

Begins  the  sad-toned  whip-poor-will, 

Filling  the  night  with  his  mournful  cry, 

While  up  on  high, 

In  the  starlit  sky, 

The  yellow  moon  drifts  slowly  by. 

TERTIUS  VAN  DYKE,  1904. 
May,  1903. 


THE  QUEEN  O'  DREAMS. 

When  the  summer  moon  hangs  in  the  sky, 

And  the  soft  wind  pulses  low, 
And  the  rushes  that  grow  by  the  riverside 

Wave  gently  to  and  fro. 

In  the  mystic  light  of  the  pale  moon's  rays 
From  realms  of  the  stars  on  high, 

Wrapped  in  a  veil  of  silver  mist 
The  Queen  o'  Dreams  drifts  by. 

To  the  Country  of  Dreams  she  bears  me  off 

Afar  through  the  silent  night, 
Drifting  and  drifting  away  and  away 

Under  the  gray  moonlight. 

But  how  I  come  back  from  that  distant  land 

Where  reigns  the  Queen  o'  Dreams 
I  know  not ;  only  I  know  that  here 
I  wake  in  the  sun's  bright  beams. 

TERTIUS  VAN  DYKE,  1904. 
June,  1903. 


'03  CLASS  ODE. 

Our  time  of  parting  now  draws  nigh, 
And  with  it  comes  the  sad  good-bye. 
We  leave  the  walls  we  hold  so  dear, 
And  pass  on  with  the  closing  year. 
So  let  us  sing  our  praise  to  thee, 
Our  Lawrenceville  and  Oughty-three. 

May  all  the  good  deeds  we  have  done, 

May  all  the  honors  we  have  won 

Cast  their  best  influence  o'er  us  now 

As  we  renew  the  solemn  vow 

To  love  and  ever  cherish  thee, 

Our  Lawrenceville  and  Oughty-three. 

May  all  the  school-day  friendships  here 
Continue  long  to  bless  and  cheer. 
May  youth  and  manhood  prove  us  still 
True,  loyal  sons  of  Lawrenceville. 
Ay,  loyal  shall  we  ever  be 
To  Lawrenceville  and  Oughty-three. 

So  raise  the  song  to  her  we  love ! 
Long  may  her  banner  float  above 
Her  noble  sons,  a  loyal  band, 
And  may  they  e'er  for  honor  stand. 
Then  will  the  old  School  ever  be 
Proud  of  her  sons  and  Oughty-three. 

JAMES  GAMBLE,  1903. 
June,  1903. 

89 


I  > 


MID-AUGUST. 

In  tangled  heaps  along  the  road 

The  dying  roses  lie, 
And  o'er  the  meadows  gray  with  dust 

The  breezes  wander  by. 

High  in  the  quivering,  cloudless  sky 
The  blazing  sun  burns  bright ; 

The  cattle  browsing  'neath  the  trees 
Are  hiding  from  his  sight. 

Along  the   fences  by  the  road 

The  berry  bushes  stoop, 
And  laden  with  their  dusty  loads, 

Across  the  roadway  droop. 


Kind-hearted  Summer,  loath  to  go, 

Still  lingers  for  a  day 
Before  she  southward  turns  her  face 
And  southward  takes  her  way. 

TERTIUS  VAN  DYKE,  1904. 
October,  1903. 


90 


I 


THE  BOGEY  MAN. 

Little  one,  hear,  the  wind  is  raging, 

Tossing  the  mighty  trees  about, 

On,  through  the  dark  the  rain  is  sweeping — 

Cling  to  me  closely 

Cuddle  up  tight, 
For  the  Bogey  Man  is  out. 

Little  one,  see,  the  fire  is  blazing, 
Queer  little  flames  dance  in  and  out, 
Weird-like  shapes  on  the  wall  are  leaping — 

Cling  to  me  closely, 

Cuddle  up  tight, 
For  the  Bogey  Man  is  about. 

Little  one,  now  the  fire  is  fading, 

Up  to  the  hearth  the  shadows  troop, 

High  on  the  roof  the  wind  is  struggling — 

Little  one,  cuddle  and 

Snuggle,  and  hark 
To  the  Bogey  Man's  wild  whoop. 

Little  one,  here  in  my  arms  embraced, 
Though  he  do  whatever  he  can, 
Rattle  the  windows  or  shriek  down  the  chim 
ney — 

Snuggle  up  closer, 
Cuddle  up  tight, 
You  are  safe  from  the  Bogey  Man. 

TERTIUS  VAN  DYKE,  1904. 
February,    1904. 

91 


> 


MARCH. 

Over  the  faded,  wintry  fields 
The  wild  March  wind  is  sweeping, 

And  up  on  high 

In  the  wind-torn  sky 

The  clouds  are  madly  racing  by 
Like  the  scud  on  the  storm-lashed  ocean. 

And  the  only  way  you  can  know  that  spring 

Is  coming  nigh, 
Is  to  look  far  off  beyond  the  clouds 

At  the  tender  blue  of  the  half-hid  sky. 

Earthward  the  tall  trees  bow  their  heads, 
Straining  their  mighty  branches, 

When  rushing  by 

With  raging  cry 

The  wind  comes  leaping  from  the  sky 
And  speeds  away  over  the  tree-tops. 

And  the  only  way  you  can  know  that  spring 

Is  coming  now, 
Is  to  hear  the  cheerful  bluebird  sing 

As  he  sways  to  and  fro  on  some  wind-tossed 
bough. 

Madly  the  dead  leaves  dance  about 
To  the  tune  the  wind  is  playing, 

And  whirling  'round 

Scarce  on  the  ground 

They  leap  with  a  dry  and  rattling  sound 
Like  a  dance  of  dead  men's  bodies. 

•    0 

92 


And  the  way  you  can  tell  that  spring  will  come, 

Though  all  seems  bare, 
Is  to  search  at  the  edge  of  the  hillside  woods 
For   the  pale  blue  flower   which   blossoms 
there. 

TERTIUS  VAN  DYKE,  1904. 
March,  1904. 


93 


THE  MARSHES. 

The  marshes  drear  to  me  are  dear, 
With  their  wastes  of  waving  reeds; 
Where  the  wild  duck  flies  and  the  curlew  cries, 
Through  the  hush  of  an  April  eve. 

Ah!  to  wend  my  way  by  the  streams  that  stray, 

O'er  the  marshland's  broad  expanse; 

And  to  watch  the  sun,  while  the  ripples  run 

With  scarlet  blazon  the  sky ; 

While  o'er  the  marsh  rings  weird,  and  harsh 

The  cry  of  a  heron  wild. 

O !  how  I  love  the  skies  above, 

And  the  two  little  ponds  below; 

When  both  are  bright  with  the  sunset  light, 

A  wonder  to  behold. 

Then  at  last  o'er  the  fen-land  vast 

The  peaceful  night  doth  fall; 

And  thro'  the  gloom  comes  the  bittern's  boom, 

As  homeward  I  wend  my  way. 

Oh,  some  may  rejoice  at  the  thrush's  voice, 
And  some  at  the  robin's  song ; 
But  better  than  all  is  the  trumpet  call 
Of  the  goose,  and  the  plover's  wail. 

The  whispering  trees  some  men  may  please, 
And  some  the  windy  hills; 
But  the  marshes  drear  to  me  are  dear, 
With  their  wastes  of  waving  reeds. 

HERBERT  BENTON  JONES,  1904. 
June,  1904. 

94 


CLASS  ODE. 

To  Naughty- four  and  all  her  memories  dear, 
We'll  sing  one  song  before  the  closing  year; 
And  as  we  leave  fore'er  the  well-loved  fold, 
We'll  sing  once  more  for  Lawrence,  as  of  old. 

Our  early  lives  here  did  we  shape  and  form, 
Beneath    God's    guiding    care  we    braved    each 

storm ; 

And  when  life's  higher  'missions  we  fulfil, 
May  then  the  same  hand  guard  and  keep  us  still. 

Our  school  days  now  are  o'er;  yet  back  there 

steals 

Full  many  a  mem'ry  which  the  past  unseals; 
Fair  by-gone  days  and  happy  phantom  scenes, 
Arise  like  shadowy  visions  in  our  dreams. 

And  now  we  bid  a  last  and  fond  farewell, 
To  all  we've  known  so  long,  and  loved  so  well; 
And  ere  we  pass  the  old-time  threshold  o'er, 
We'll  breathe  a  prayer  for  dear  old  Naughty- four. 

FRANCIS  BOWES  SAYRE,  1904. 
June,  1904. 


95 


TO  THE  HEIR  THAT  IS  BORN  TO  THE 
:         RUSSIAN  THRONE. 

Across  the  seas  I  pity  thee 

Thy  lot  of  life,  O  new-born  lad, 
I  pity  that  thy  Soul  shall  be 

In  robe  of  State  so  heavy-stifling  clad. 

For  looking  forward  I  can  see 

Naught  but  a  weary  way  to  tread, 

Shall  bring  a  pain  to  eyes  of  thee 

Far  in  the  depths  where  no  sweet  tear  is  shed. 

Haply  a  few  short  years  shall  come 
When  thou  mayst  revel  in  thy  youth, 

But  then  thy  heart  shall  e'er  be  dumb — 

Too  wisdom-wise  to  know  its  own,  forsooth! 

Thou  shalt  sit  upon  thy  steed, 

Thy  bowing  peoples,  mile  and  mile; 

Thy  dying  Youth  with  thee  shall  plead, 

And  O  the  smile  thy  human  lips  shall  smile ! 

Thy  life  is  not  thine  own  to  give 

In  sweet  pursuit  of  human  peace; 
Thy  life  is  not  thine  own  to  live, 

Until  thy  heavy-beating  heart  shall  cease. 

Thine  acts  are  predetermined  long 

Before  thou  wert  to  birthhood  grown, 

And  howe'er  great  and  howe'er  strong, 

Thou  canst  not  sow  but  as  the  dead  have  sown. 

96 


As  long  as  men  are  woman-born, 
As  long  as  human  hearts  are  wild, 

I  pity  thee,  thou  Babe  Forlorn, 

So  long  I  pity  thee,  O  Princeling-child ! 

HORACE  HOTCHKISS  HOLLEY.  1906. 

November,  1904. 


97 


ON  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE  YEAR. 

Be  a  jolly  good  fellow  with  me  this  night, 
O  come  be  a  jolly  good  fellow  with  me, 

Your  cup  I  will  fill  and  your  pipe  I  will  light, 
And  never  a  question  be  asking  of  thee. 

Be  a  jolly  good  fellow  with  me  this  night 
And  never  a  question  of  sorrow  or  sin, 

And  never  a  thought  for  the  time  in  its  flight, 
And  never  a  tear  for  the  old  "might  have  been." 

There's  a  night  for  the  sage  that  is  spended  in 
toil,  '  ; 

A  night  for  the  lover  with  hurrying  feet; 
But  snatch  me  this  night,  ere  the  destinies  foil, 

And  give  it  to  folly,  and  let  it  be  sweet ! 

Let  us  ring  out  the  lines  that  are  cast  for  our 

parts 
And  draw  the  poor  swords  with  which  players 

must  fight, 

O  who  shall  see  through  the  fine  lace  to  our  hearts 
If  we  but  sing  gayly  and  lightly  to-night? 

O  throw  off  the  hood  of  the  grave  man  and  wise,. 

O  take  up  the  motley  and  wear  it  with  me, 
List  to  my  jest  of  the  year  as  it  dies, 

O  hearken  my  want  of  the  wine  and  of  thee. 
HORACE  HOTCHKISS  HOLLEY,  1906. 
December,  1904. 

98 


AT  A  SPRING. 

Mayhap  Diana,  bending  low, 

Had  touched  her  lips  to  this  cool  spring, 
Aweary  of  her  silver  bow 

And  all  her  woodland  wandering. 

.^ 

Mayhap  above  this  mossy  brink 

Young  Bacchus,  flushed  with  glow  divine, 
Had  calmed  his  heart  by  this  fair  drink, 

Forgetting  for  an  hour  his  wine. 

Mayhap  this  shaded  water  heard 

The  limpid  lute  of  Orpheus, 
And  its  smooth  breast  was  vaguely  stirred 

By  the  sounds  melodious. 

Mayhap,  as  I  am  dreaming  now, 

Some  other  lad  of  other  time 
Had  bended  here  with  fervid  brow 

And  traced  his  dream  of  love  or  rhyme. 

Ah !  ye  wan  shades  who  tarried  here 

From  din  and  fret  of  long  ago, 
How  real  your  presence  and  how  dear 
With  all  its  varied  weal  and  woe ! 

HORACE  HOTCHKISS  HOLLEY,  1906. 
February,  1905. 


99 


\ 


IN  A  COPY  OF  "ROBIN  HOOD." 

Through  the  glades  of  Sherwood  the  frightened 

deer  still  tread, 
The  sunshine   falls  as  brightly  from  the  druid 

oaks  o'erhead; 
But,  somehow,  from  the  forest  the  old  wild  joy 

has  fled, 
And  Robin,  merry  Robin,  Robin  Hood  is  dead. 

Robin  Hood,  the  merry  yeoman ;  Robin  Hood, 

the  sheriff's  bane — 
O  the  worship  I  have  offered  on  my  youth's  most 

pleasant  fane! 

0  the  royal  bouts  and  lusty,  with  the  quarterstaff 

and  bow, 

When  his  eye  and  arm  were  truest,  since  my 
heart  would  have  it  so. 

It  was  always  May  in  England,  everything  was 

young  and  fair. 
But  I   found  the  book  of  Wisdom,  and  Time 

turned  its  pages  o'er, 
And   I   read  his  undeceiving — May  and  Robin 

were  no  more. 

Thou  liast  lost  thy  May  and  Yeoman,  O  thou 
England;  and  to  thee 

1  may  turn  no  more  for  heaven,  as  I  would  have 

heaven  be. 

100 


I  may  turn  no  more  to  England,  and  I  know  not 

where  to  turn, 
For  my  heart  still  beats  an  outlaw;  O,  my  heart, 

it  will  not  learn! 

HORACE  HOTCHKISS  HOLLEY,  1906. 
March,  1905. 


1 01 


THE  GATE  OF  SUMMER. 

Beauty  sleeps,  while  slowly  keeps 
The  vigil  of  the  weary  hours. 

Beauty  sleeps ;  as  silent  reaps 

The  passing  burden  of  the  flowers. 

Beauty  sleeps  in  guise  sore  changed, 
Beauty  weeps  with  love  estranged; 
Beauty  may  not,  may  not  die. 

Beauty  may  not,  though  she  hie 

For  a  season  far  away. 
Beauty  sleeps,  but  not  for  aye — 

Beauty  may  not  die. 
Tell  me,  red  rose;  tell  me,  white — 
Whither  go  thou  in  the  night? 
Tell  me,  white  rose;  tell  me  red — 

Whither  wait  the  season's  dead? 

Is  it  hither,  is  it  thither, 

Blow  the  roses  pale  that  wither, 

Is  it  fairyland  or  heaven 

Where  the  shapes  of  beauty  wait? 

Is  it  some  far  land  of  dreaming, 

Where  the  semblance  of  our  seeming 

From  the  eyes  of  Beauty  gleaming, 
Bears  the  aftermath  of  fate? 


102 


We  will  find  it  bye  and  bye,  love ; 

We  will  find  it,  you  and  I,  love; 
We  will  find  it  when  we  die,  love — 
When  we  pass  through  summer's  gate. 

HORACE  HOTCHKISS  HOLLEY,  1906. 
May,  1905. 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  WATER. 

Hast  ever  seen  the  shimmering  path 

On  the  water  gleaming  bright, 
Where  the  summer  moon  with  lavish  hand 

Hath  strewed  her  precious  light  ? 

Where  the  ripples  play  at  hide  and  seek 

Down  that  magic  silver  lane, 
And  the  glorious,  shining  way,  seems  leading 
As  to  some  goddess'  fane? 

JOHN  COBB  COOPER,  JR.,  1905. 
May,  1905. 

103 


'05  CLASS  ODE. 
Now  sadness  falls  upon  us, 

For,   classmates   soon  we  part, 
To  leave  for  aye  behind  us 

Days  dear  to  ev'ry  heart. 
When  slowly  sink  the  shadows, 

Commencement  Day  is  o'er ; 
With  farewells  sadly  spoken 

Our  school  days  are  no  more. 

In  closest  love  and  friendship 

We've  dwelt  for  many  a  day; 
For  Thou  hast  led  us,  Father, 

Through  pleasure,  toil,  and  play. 
So,  God  of  Friendship,  keep  us 

Along  life's  weary  road; 
The  journey  o'er,  then  lead  us 

Into  Thy  safe  abode. 

Now  comes  the  parting  hour, 
Our  last  sad  hymn  is  done, 
And  school  days  close  about  us — 

A  new  life  has  begun. 
But  on  life's  path  of  toiling, 

While  upward,  on  we  strive, 
One  thought  shall  be  before  us — 
"God  keep  thee,  Oughty-five!" 

JOHN  COBB  COOPER,  JR.,  1905. 
Commencement,  1905. 

104 


CHILDREN'S  VOICES. 

Children's  voices  rise  to  me 

In  a  simple  little  melody, 

Hushed  and  sweet  and  low. 

O  I  do  know 

What  sort  of  man  in  heart  can  render  so 

His  art  in  a  song  for  little  children ; 

For  I  could  easier  write 

On  very  utmost  height 

Of  tragedy, 

Than  render  so 

My  art  in  a  song  for  little  children — 

A  simple,  trusting  melody, 

Hushed  and  sweet  and  low. 

HORACE  HOTCHKISS  HOLLEY,  1906. 
December,   1905. 


105 


THE  SCHOOL  CHIMES. 

Far  o'er  the  land,  in  tones  harmonious-golden, 
The  chimes,  full-throated,  boom  their  tides  of 

song;  .'  »-v;:.         -      i 

On,  on  the  notes,  in  hollow  echoes  holden, 

Shake  out  their  worth  of  purity  along. 
'Tis  not  save  metal  stout  and  honest  molden, 
Can  from  its  breast  pour  tones  so  sweet  and 
strong. 

O  may  our  School's  entrusted  reputation 
Be  wrought  as  pure  in  future-coming  days, 

That  all  her  sons  may  gain  in  preservation, 
As  chimes  long  linger  with  their  mellow  praise : 

Then  Lawrenceville  shall  give  such  consecration 
As  music  gives,  ennobling  as  it  stays. 

HORACE  HOTCHKISS  HOLLEY,  1906. 

February,  1906. 


106 


LULLABY. 

Go  to  sleep,  ma  honey,  nevah  min', 

Jes'  shet  dem  eyes  an'  den  yo'll  sho'ly  fin' 

While   Mammy's   settin'   by 

Yo'  nevah  need  to  cry, 
Go  to  sleep,  ma  honey,  nevah  min'. 

Dem  stahs  in  heben  is  sho'ly  shinin'  bright, 
An'  spooks  is  walkin'  'round  thro'  all  de  night, 

Yo'  mustn'  hab  no  feah, 

Jes'  dry  dat  big  ol'  teah, 
Den  sleep,  ma  chile,  an'  sleep  wid  all  yo'  might. 

GEORGE  GAUL,  1906. 
March,  1906. 


107 


NAPOLEON  BEFORE  THE  SPHINX. 

Like  the  uprolling  of  some  vast  curtain 

Was  raised  the  darkness  of  that  Eastern  night, 

And  silently  beneath  the  watching  stars 

Appeared  the  stage,  for  Tragedy  prepared. 

Motionless  and  illimitable — 

An  arena  for  action  unconfined 

And  teaching  of  time's  lesson  unto  man. 

An  awful  step  is  Man  beneath  the  gods, 
Which  he  may  not,  except  through  Death,  ascend. 
Upon  the  mortal  who  presumes  too  much 
Fate  lays  the  hand  of  dim  finality; 
And  heaven's  law  curtails  the  human  reach 
By  an  unseen,  yet  cruelly  present  line. 

The  mightiest  of  his  race,  yet  puny  still, 
Stood  rev'rently  before  Time's  conqueror. 
Emotion  quicked  his  eye,  his  soul  grew  great, 
.   And  in  equality  he  sought  that  face 
On  which  the  price  of  victory  is  writ. 

Erected  by  some  prophet  of  the  past 
Prometheus-like  the  Sphinx  uprears  her  head, 
And  o'er  the  burning  sand  wherein  she  lies, 
Awaits  his  coming  who  can  read  her  soul. 

The  wheeling  of  an  age  brings  forth  but  one 
May  seize  the  scope  of  full  eternity. 
To  him  the  Sphinx  bears  warning  of  defeat ; 
Read  ye  who  can,  and  him  who  reads,  obey ! 

108 


He  sought  that  face  and  dared  to  read  that  price ; 
He  understood  yet  undertook  the  task 
Whose  sole  reward  is  fearful  solitude — * 
And  therein  was  he  great,  and  therein  small. 

Understanding,  complete  and  mutual, 

Is  rare  on  earth ;  interpretation 

Of  great  thoughts  rare  as  the  thinking  of  them. 

'Tis  like  a  sea  of  mist  where-through  arise 

Some    few   vast   peaks   which    face   though    far 

apart, 

And  from  one  height  a  voice  in  accents  slow 
Makes  sound,  which,  on-rolling  o'er  the  cloud, 
Meets  each  high  mount  in  turn,  but  ne'er  descends 
To  lesser  hills  which  lie  below  the  mist. 


Because  the  Sphinx  had  seen  the  wax  and  wane 

Of  century,  of  cycle  and  of  age ; 

Because  beneath  her  feet  had  passed  the  reign 

Of  clan,  of  priesthood,  and  of  emperor, 

She  watched  with  moveless  eye  the  eagle's  flight. 

Nor  mourned  her  own  immovability. 

The  distance  from  that  Island  to  that  Stage 
Is  but  the  swing  of  Fate's  big  pendulum; 
The  measure  of  the  miles  is  greater  far 
Than  is  the  distance  from  vict'ry  to  Defeat. 


109 


Unplumed  the  eagle  from  his  prison-rock 
In  solitude  gazed  Eastward  toward  the  Sphinx, 
And  in  loneliness  of  life's  decay 
Exemplified  the  letter  of  the  law. 

HORACE  HOTCHKISS  HOLLEY,  1906. 
April,  1906. 


no 


'06  CLASS  ODE. 

Clouds  coursed  swiftly  down  their  track, 

Lusty  West  winds  blew  them  back: 
High  above  the  windy  wrack 

Clear   and   bright   the   sun   shown   through 

them, 
All  the  world  lies  wide  and  far, 

Wasted  deserts,  oceans  hollow; 
Though  it  be  for  bloody  war, 

Let  us  follow,  let  us  follow. 

Time  and  Distance  lie  in  wait, 

Hov'ring  ever  o'er  us; 
Let  no  heart  nor  hope  abate — 

All  mankind  has  gone  before  us. 
Love  and  Knowledge,  hand  in  hand, 

Shining  far  like  golden  fleeces, 
Bide  forever  in  that  land 

Where  content  and  human  peace  is. 

Follow !  though  the  dragon's  breath 

Be  like  poison  heated, 
None  that  boldly  went  to  death 

Were  in  dying  ever  cheated. 
Be  it  unto  good  or  ill, 

Eager  as  Spring's  lightest  swallow, 
Blessed  be  Alma  Lawrenceville, 

Let  us  follow,  Brothers,  follow! 

HORACE  HOTCHKISS  HOLLEY,  1906. 
June,  1906. 

in 


A  TOAST  TO  '07. 

"It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see   the  great  Achilles  whom  we   knew.3 

— Tennyson's  Ulysses. 


A  moment  close  each  well-worn  book ; 

The  time  draws  near  when  we  must  part. 
Beyond  the  studied  page  we  look, 

And  search,  with  inner  gaze  the  heart. 
My  comrades,  lo !  a  feast  is  spread, 

With  snowy  cloth  and  sparkling  bowl ; 
The  bread  is  white,  the  wine  is  red, 

A  shining  grail  before  each  soul! 

Up,  up  my  comrades,  lift  on  high 
The  Wine  of  High  Endeavor! 

A  toast  to  those  who  never  die, 
To  those  who  live  forever! 


Who  quaffs  with  these  this  blood  red  wine? 

Who  bravely  treads  the  way  of  life? 
Who  claims  a  fellowship  divine 

With  heroes  of  the  mighty  strife? 
He  who  wastes  not  his  years  in  play, 

Who,  selling  not  his  soul  for  gold, 
Sees,  far  beyond  this  fleeting  day, 

The  endless  time,  youth  never  old. 


112 


To  those  who  wrought  by  sword  and  pen, 

By  life  or  tongue  or  gracious  deed; 
Who  chose,  above  the  praise  of  men, 

Above  the  call  of  gain  or  greed, 
The  narrow  pathway  of  the  Right — 

That  path  which  leads  through  waste  and 

drought, 
To  scale,  at  last,  a  weary  height, 

The  cross-crowned  Calvary  of  Truth ! 

Our  brows  the  laurel  wreath  may  twine, 

O'er  us  the  cypress  soon  may  moan, 
Our  days  the  darkest  toil  may  grime, 

Or  we  may  find  the  peace  of  home. 
What  bodes  our  fate?    With  raptured  feet 

On  fields  of  asphodel  we  tread; 
We  hold  high  converse,  heavenly  sweet, 

We  dwell  with  the  immortal  dead! 

ROBERT  DULL  ELDER,  1907. 
May,  1907. 


113 


THE  PRINCE  AND  THE  MAID. 

A  prince  once  sued  for  a  maiden's  hand, 
And  he  offered  her  riches  and  jewels  and  land, 
He  bowed  down  low  on  his  bended  knee, 
As  meek  and  humble  as  he  could  be, 
And  he  pressed  his  suit  most  gallantly, 

Even  as  you  or  I. 

The  maiden  blushed  a  rosy  red, 
But  she  gently  shook  her  pretty  head. 
'Your  land  and  riches  and  jewels  are  naught 
But  a  bait  by  which  only  fools  are  caught; 
For  love,"  said  she,  "can  ne'er  be  bought." 

Even  as  you  or  I. 

The  prince  turned  about  and  went  his  way, 
But  he  came  again  the  very  next  day ; 
And  he  dressed  himself  as  an  artist  bold, 
Who  had  neither  lands  nor  jewels  nor  gold, 
But  he  offered  her  homage  and  love  untold, 

Even  as  you  or  I. 

So  he  won  the  hand  of  this  winsome  maid. 
And,  she'd  live  an  artist's  life,  she  said; 
And  when  his  title  he  did  betray, 
The  loving  girl  could  not  say  him  nay; 
And  they  married  at  last — so  the  story  books 
say — 

Even  as  you  or  I. 

CLARK  Fox  HUNN,  1907. 

June,  1907. 

114 


CLASS  ODE  1907. 

Lawrence,  to  thee  is  our  parting  song; 

We,  who  must  leave  thee,  bid  sad  farewell ; 
Through   thy   loved   halls,    'midst   the   gathered 
throng, 

Anthem  and  echo  the  story  tell. 
Dawns  the  last  morning — the  new  born  day, 

Tinting  the  clouds  with  its  crimson  hue, 
Lingers  to  list  to  our  humble  lay — 

Requiem  of  hours  we  would  fain  renew. 

Harmonies  vague  o'er  our  heartstrings  sweep, 

Breathing  a  portent  of  nobler  days ; 
Out  of  the  shadows  doth  purpose  leap, 

Stirred  by  the  faint,  half-uttered  lays. 
Waked  is  the  soul  from  its  visions  bright, 

Dreaming  the  mem'ries  of  youth's  brief  hour — 
Waked  to  the  dawn  of  a  clearer  light, 

Strong  in  the  promise  of  manhood's  power. 

Thou,  who  hast  called  us,  whose  hand  hath  led, 

Urging  us  onward  to  life  anew — 
Watch  o'er  us,  guide  us,  our  cause  bestead, 

Keep  us  still  thine,  ever  loyal  and  true. 
Those  we  must  leave  be  thy  constant  care, 

Friends,  who  were   faithful  in  good  or  ill — 
Watch  over  all  in  this  haven  fair, 

Guard  and  protect  her,  our  Lawrenceville. 

CLARK  Fox  HUNN,  1907. 
Commencement,  1907. 

V 

US 


1908  CLASS  ODE. 

Lawrenceville,  friend  of  our  youthful  years, 

Guide  of  our  footsteps,  a  helper  in  sorrow; 
Thou  who  didst  banish  our  wavering  fears, 

Giving  us  hope  for  the  dawn  of  the  morrow; 
Now  we  must  part,  but  we  part  not  forever, 

Thou  in  our  hearts  for  the  future  shall  dwell ; 
Though  we  journey  afar,  we  shall  never, 

Never  forget  thee,  our  Lawrence,  farewell! 

If  in  Life's  battles  as  victors  we  flourish, 

Crowned  with  success,  still  awaiting  the  fight, 
We  in  our  hearts  will  devotedly  nourish 

Thoughts  of  thy  wisdom  which  guided  us  right. 
Thou,  Alma  Mater,  hast  watched  o'er  our  life, 

Given  us  courage  and  armed  us  with  truth; 
Trained  us  in  wisdom,  prepared  for  the  strife 

By  building  upon  the  foundations  of  youth. 

Through  all  our  days  may  thy  memory  cling, 

Rich  in  its  vision^  of  promise  and  love, 
Fresh  as  the  breath  of  the  opening  spring, 

Clear  as  the  heaven  which  arches  above. 
Now  we  must  part,  but  we  part  not  forever; 

Dear  in  our  hearts  to  the  end  thou  shalt  dwell, 
Rising  or  falling  in  life  we  shall  never, 

Never  forget  thee,  our  Lawrence,  farewell! 

CARLTON  PORTER  REX,  1909. 
June,  1908. 

116 


ACROSTIC. 

October  wrapped  in  chilly  blasts 
Comes  like  Midas  o'er  the  earth 
Touching  with  golden  touch  the  meads ; 
Or  with  more  show  his  magic  casts, 
Bright  decks  each  tree  in  wondrous  weeds, 
Emerald,  topaz  and  ruby  lasts 
Resplendent  as  in  autumn  birth. 

CARLTON  PORTER  REX,  1909. 
October,  1908. 


117 


1909  CLASS  ODE. 

Farewell  to  thee,  Alma  Mater,  beloved, 

Friend  of  our  youth,  our  protector,  our  guide ; 
As  in  the  past,  be  near  us  in  the  future, 

Helping  us  stem  life's  tempestuous  tide. 
Thou,  Alma  Mater,  hast  taught  us  the  lesson 

How  to  be  manly,  straightforward  and  strong; 
We,  thy  true  sons,  in  the  future  shall  ever 

Deeply  revere  thee  and  cherish  thee  long. 

Now  we  look  back,  Alma  Mater,  and  thank  thee, 

Thank  Thee  for  friends  who  are  loyal  and 

strong ; 
Friends  in  the  past,  the  present,  the  future, 

Friends  who  shall  dwell  in  our  memory  long. 
Riches  may  come  for  a  moment  and  vanish, 

Sorrow  draw  'nigh  which  we  cannot  forfend : 
Pleasures  are  transient;  friendship,  however, 

Ripens  with  age  and  will  last  to  the  end. 

When  in  the  world  we  shall  shoulder  our  burdens, 

Treading  the  numberless  pathways  of  life, 
Aye  shall  we  love  thee,  our  dear  Alma  Mater, 

Thou  who  hast  fitted  us  well  for  the  strife ; 
And  if  in  life  we  gain  glory  or  honor — 

God  grant  we  may,  none  but  He  can  foresee — 
We  shall  recall  thy  first  teachings,  and  justly 

Trace  the  true  source  of  each  triumph  to  thee. 

CARLTON  PORTER  REX,  1909. 
June,  1909. 

118 


FAME. 

What  may  it  be,  what  value  claim  ? 
A  flicker  that  belies  a  flame 
Outgleams  athwart  some  untrod  space 
And  dies  upon  its  light'ning  race, 
While  fainting  echoes  laud  the  brain 
That  joins  the  unsought  dust  again. 

What  may  it  be  ?    Men  call  it  fame. 
What  mockery !  'tis  but  a  name, 
'Twill  fade  beneath  the  blast  of  time, 
As  orchids  in  a  frozen  clime, 
Tho'  it  be  scratched  with  bleeding  hand 
Upon  the  pinnacle — of  sand. 

EVERETT  GLASS,  1910. 
February,  1910. 


iiy 


THE  PURPLE  COW. 

Upon  the  milky  way  of  heaven 
There  stood  a  purple  cow. 

With  dreamy  eye  and  forehead  high 
She  made  a  tragic  bow. 

A  wondrous  star  of  palest  blue 

Lay  on  her  spongy  nose, 
And  through  the  night  it  cast  a  light 

About  her  scanty  clothes. 

Her  stately  head  she  bended  low 

And  smiled  a  dewy  smile, 
Then  bellowed  loud  to  some  far  cloud 

In  a  most  lonesome  style. 

The  moon  waxed  faintly  at  her  cry 

And  slowly  dripped  away, 
And  every  star  tripped  from  afar 
To  see  the  purple  fay. 

EVERETT  GLASS,  1910. 
February,  1910. 


120 


THE  MERMAN'S  GRAVE. 

Where  doth  the  merman  bold  repose 
When  long  life  draweth  to  a  close  ? 
Is  his  grave  overgrown  with  flow'rs, 
Which  vie  in  forming  perfumed  bowers, 
'Neath  which  the  fairies  come  and  play 
As  twilight  cool  pursues  the  day 
O'er  purple  hills  and  far  away  ? 

Ah  no !    Ah  no ! 

Far  down  in  some  vast  ocean  cave, 
Tis  there  the  merman  finds  a  grave ; 
Where  thunder  of  the  mighty  deep 
Disturbeth  not  his  silent  sleep. 

And  has  he  friends  who  come  to  see 
If  he  in  peaceful  resting  be? 
Do  they  come  with  measured  tread 
To  kneel  in  sadness  o'er  his  head  ? 
And  do  they  bring  red  roses  rare 
In  passing  beauty  fresh  and  fair 
To  strew  about  him  everywhere  ? 

Ah  no !    Ah  no ! 

His  dreary  darksome  death  retreat 
Ne'er  feels  the  tread  of  friendly  feet ; 
And  no  sweet  roses  red  and  rare 
E'er  see  the  Merking  lying  there. 

EVERETT  GLASS,  1910. 
March,  1910. 

121 


1910  ODE. 

Upon  thy  forehead,  as  a  crown, 

Fair  Lawrenceville,  may  thy  renown 

With  deeds  of  centuries  emblaze 
The  radiant  glory  of  thy  praise ! 

May  we  who  are  thy  children  blest 
Enhance  the  splendor  of  thy  crest 

With  thoughts  that  shall  forever  be 
Full  worthy  of  thy  majesty! 

We  leave  the  chapel's  hallowed  walls, 
On  which  the  love  of  Heaven  falls, 

With  heritage  more  rich  than  gold, 
The  heritage  of  honor  old. 

May  echoes  of  our  youthful  song 

Strike  golden  harps  that  shall  prolong 

Through  chapel  arches  high  above 
The  memory  of  our  lasting  love! 

Great  God,  we  ask  thy  blessing  here 

Upon  our  home  and  comrades  dear, 
As  we  set  out  upon  that  sea 
Which  wafts  us  to  eternity. 

EVERETT  GLASS,  1910. 
June,  1910. 


122 


INDEX 

PAGE 

Age    20 

Andrew's    Fate 59 

At  a  Spring 99 

Acrostic    117 

Ballad  of  the  Road 36 

Ballad  of  Teddy's  Terrors,  The 42 

Bogey  Man,  The 91 

Class  Ode,  1896 15 

"        "      i897   24 

1898   38 

1899   58 

1900   70 

1901    77 

1902   79 

"        "      1903   89 

1904     95 

1905    104 

1906 in 

"      1907   US 

1908   116 

1909  1 18 

1910  . . : 122 

Change   40 

Children's  Voices 105 

Chimes,  Lawrenceville,  The 106 

123 


Come !  Ho  For  a  Bumper,  and  Ho  for  a  Song 30 

Constancy    27 

Day,  The  12 

Deeper  Night,  The  29 

Departure  of  Mary  Stuart  for  France 31 

Drinking  Song 50 

Egyptian  War  Song 17 

Epilogue  from  Horace,  An  n 

Evening    Prayer    73 

Fame     1 19 

Fanatics 64 

Fisher   Fleet,   The    56 

Gate  of  Summer,  The  102 

Genius  33 

Heir  That's  Born  to  the  Russian  Throne,  To  the,  .  96 

High  Ideals 71 

Idol,   The    62 

In  The  Afterglow  39 

Invocation    37 

In  a  Copy  of  Robin  Hood  100 

Land  of  Sleep,  The 13 

Le  Chanson  du  Tireur  D'Armes 34 

Lost :  A  Friend  28 

Lost  King,  The 65 

Lullaby     53 

Lullaby 107 

March     92 

Marooned 37 

Marshes,   The    94 

Memory     66 

Merman's  Grave,  The 121 

Mid-August    90 

Mirage,    The    60 

124 


Misshot,  A   19 

Monk,    The    21 

Moonlight  on  the  Water 103 

My  Ship 26 

Napoleon  Before  the  Sphinx   108 

Night     83' 

North    Pole,    The    68 

November     18 

October    16 

Old  Year,  The  10 

On  a  Gray  Day 12 

On  the  Last  Night  of  the  Year 98 

Parable,   A    22 

Pessimist,  The   76 

Pines,   The    84 

Prince  and  the  Maid,  The 114 

Purple    Cow,    The    120 

Queen  O'  Dreams,  The 88 

Rhymed  Ending,  A   78 

Robin,    The    86 

Shepherd's  Love  Song,  The 75 

Song  of  the  Meadow-Lark 82 

Spanish  Galleon,  The  54 

Spirit  of  the  Storm,  The 57 

Spirits  of  the  Storm,  The  80 

Storm  Birds,  The  69 

Suggestions  from  Ovid  9 

Sylvan  Dance,  The    48 

'Tis  better  So  63 

Toast,   The    55 

Toast  to  '07,  A 112 

Twilight     72 

Venice 81 

125 


When  All  The  World  is  Still 41 

Whippoorwill     74 

Whippoorwill,    The        87 

Yarn  of  the  "Roaring  Rip",  The 51 


126 


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